


Life Everlasting

by DangerDuchess



Series: No Man Would Dare [1]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: #JusticeforErnest, #WPBVictor, A Typical Witcher Short Story, Bickering, Brief mention of Yennefer, M/M, Old Married Couple, Rated For Violence, Unethical Science, With A Twist, overly dramatic victorains
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-24
Updated: 2020-04-08
Packaged: 2021-02-28 16:31:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 28,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23300164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DangerDuchess/pseuds/DangerDuchess
Summary: Geralt and Dandelion take a contract from a young lord to find his only living relative, his older brother, whose run away following the deaths of the rest of their family. The Witcher and Bard cross the continent on the man's trail and learn there is much more to this man's story than his tragic family. There is a dark secret that is following him--and now it's following them.OrA Witcher twist on a Familiar Gothic Tale.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: No Man Would Dare [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1698592
Comments: 70
Kudos: 119





	1. A House Of Sorrow

**Author's Note:**

> I'm so excited to share this. This is the first fic I've written in a long time, but I'm hoping y'all like it enough! It was a fever dream of an idea having done a rereading of my favorite book of all time. I hope y'all like it <3

It was some lord—a very young one too, which didn’t bode well. It usually meant some personal petty business or vanity project. Unfortunately, Geralt’s purse was starting to get low, and if the Lord was paying well then... who was he to refuse.

Dandelion had, of course, insisted on coming along, already eager for the next adventure. They’d barely walked up the steps when he proudly announced, “I’ve got a good feeling about this one. It’s going to make for something fascinating—perhaps my best ballad yet!”

“You say that every time,” the Witcher huffed.

“And everytime, I surpass myself. That’s _consistency_ Geralt. Cheer up! I’m sure you’ll have a monster to slash into bits in no time.”

The two crossed the threshold of the grand house and immediately Dandelion’s good feeling was rather scarce. It wasn’t just that the place was empty—though that certainly didn’t help. What manifested for Dandelion as a sense of unease Geralt could smell: death. What little decorations were around, they all pointed the same way—the funeral wreaths, the black cloths over the mirrors. This was a home in mourning.

“Mm... some undead perhaps?” the bard offered. He’d started getting into the tradition of making his best guess on the job before they learned about it. Out of every hire, he’d only gotten a handful correct, but any minor victory was sure to go to his head. Geralt just shook his head with a small, faint smile.

“Dear old granny won’t quite let go,” Dandelion went on, in a soft, general imitation of nobility. “It’s really quite off putting when I bring ladies home.”

“Father, actually,” came a voice from behind. Startled, Dandelion turned to see the man Geralt had absolutely heard coming and said nothing about. He was a rather young lad—barely twenty if Geralt had to guess, light brown colored hair with a reddish tint to it properly pulled back with a ribbon. He was dressed in a respectable blue coat that vibrantly stood out against the dark of the house. He was elegantly poised and held himself well, despite his age. Well trained nobility he was, then.

“My grandmother died well before I was born,” The young man said. “These wreaths are for my father. He passed just a few days ago.”

“I’m sorry for your loss, sir,” Geralt said, followed by a soft ‘indeed’ from Dandelion who nodded his head in a polite bow. 

The young man offered only an empty smile. “Seems the Formot Estate is a house of sorrow these days. All one must do is refresh the flowers for the next funeral...”

“You’re Lord Ernest Formot then?”

He watched the young man’s jaw tighten, his fingers fidgeting with each other ever so slightly.

“I am indeed Ernest Formot,” came his answer. “But I’m somewhat prohibited from taking a title just yet.”

Geralt grunted in response. He was starting to get a picture for it now...

“I take it this has something to do with whatever job you have for me.”  
  
“Well guessed, Sir Witcher.” The young man took a step back and gestured to the door he’d emerged from. “Please, step inside. We can discuss business in private.”  
  
Dandelion and Geralt shared a look in which they silently consulted each other on if they’d seen another person on the entirety of the empty estate, answering each other with a very firm no. But. They followed Ernest into the study all the same. It was a lovely space that was very much decorated for someone far older than him, but the young man took his place behind the desk with no hesitation. Geralt silently mused that he was playing dress up with a child desperately attempting to fill his father’s shoes.  
  
“Forgive me for the abrupt invitation, gentlemen,” Ernest said. “I’d only just heard you’d come to our town. I feared you’d move on if I wasn’t quick enough.”

“Well, you were,” Geralt assured him. They’d barely sat down at the tavern to eat when the messenger had run at them with such _urgency_ , crying _Lord Ernest Formot wishes to speak with you at once_! “If you don’t mind, I’d skip to the part where you offer me a job. Save us both some time.”

“Of course.” Ernest looked between the two men before him, no doubt gathering his words and strength. _This is his first act as an authority no doubt,_ the Witcher silently surmised. _Wasn’t expecting to inherit things so soon._

“My family is well known in these parts,” he said. “We’ve been here for some time, throughout many generations. But... These past few years are attempting to end us, it seems. First it was my mother. She fell ill when I was a child. Then my youngest brother, only a handful of years ago was killed. My elder brother married just a few weeks past and his bride died the next day. And... now my father has fallen as well.”

“I’m sorry to hear it, sir,” Dandelion said, that concerned arch upon his brow. “What a horrible string of tragedy.”

“It certainly is,” Ernest said, giving a tight nod. “All that is left of my family is my older brother and I. I’ll admit I’ve grown rather sick of mourning. Calloused as it may be, I’d like to resume the original works of my family and put all this darkness in the past.”

“But, you’re not the real Lord of the house,” Geralt finished.

The young man nodded, barely holding back a sigh. “You’re all too correct, Sir Witcher. In his death, my father’s titles and properties fall to my brother. Victor and I were never particularly close, but after the death of his wife...” Ernest shook his head. “He’s become a truly broken man. The death of our father only pushed him further away, and now. He’s disappeared altogether. No word, no notice, nothing but the disappearance of a small purse and some food. I need him returned so we can sort out the estate. I’m sure he wants nothing to do with our father’s position, as he never has before, but nothing can be done unless he is here.”

Dandelion hummed, nodding at the strangeness of the tale. “Curious indeed, sir. But frankly, this is hardly a task for such a famed Witcher! Are there no mercenaries or bounty hunters that you could hire for much the same task?”

At this Ernest grimaced. His eyes fell from the men before them, seeming to stare past their shoulders instead. Whatever words were about to leave his lips, they were taking true effort to summon.

“My brother... is a brilliant, studied man; well educated and clever. But... he may have very well lost his mind. After his wife’s body was found, he attempted to rally a search party to hunt down her killer. She _was_ murdered, mind you—strangled to death—but we never found the man. Victor went on a rampage, telling everyone of a giant creature; a demon vaguely shaped like a man, unnaturally strong and swift, with horrible eyes and a cursed face—no doubt the ravings of a man mad from grief.” 

“No doubt,” Geralt huffed. “And yet... you asked for a Witcher.”

The young man grimaced again. This time something hot flared behind his eyes as he spoke. This was not frustration. This was personal. “My brother—my youngest brother, Wilam. He was killed in much the same way as Victor’s wife, about three years past. He was only seven at the time. He was raised by our governess Jessene who was the kindest and most gentle soul. But when his body was found, she was accused, eventually found guilty, and unjustly executed.”

His hands clenched in fists against the table. Geralt watched the young would-be lord attempt to reign in the welling emotions. Seemed this truly was a house of sorrow...

“I loved Jessene. We all did. She was barely a servant and _far_ more a friend to us all. In her defense, she claimed to have seen a creature, one that cast an unnaturally long shadow that passed over her the night of Wilam’s murder.” His eyes looked up to the two men before him, quietly burning with true passion. “I might not believe the feral rantings of my brother, but Jessene was not a liar anymore than she was a murderer. If this demon is real, then I pray you destroy it and avenge my family. And if it isn’t... you’ll bring Victor some comfort—knowing he travels with a great monster killer.”

Geralt started the young man down a moment, yellow eyes glancing over the entirety of the would-be Lord’s frame. This was overwhelmingly not a job for a Witcher—at best it was a retrieval with a vague cover of a hypothetical monster. No doubt the Lord was holed away somewhere in a tavern, gambling the family fortune and drinking away the sorrows of a murdered wife.

But... there was something to be said for the stacked coincidences of murders and deaths in this home. _Something_ strange was happening there, no doubt. Geralt just wasn’t certain it was monstrous in origin.

“I can pay you well,” Ernest offered, sensing the reluctance. “A decent lump sum to see you through the task, and the rest when you’ve returned. Whatever you require, sir.”

Geralt said nothing for a lingering moment. His eyes glanced to Dandelion, who only raised his eyebrows in gentle intrigue.

The Witcher took a breath. And made his decision.

~

“‘North’ isn’t exactly much of a lead,” Dandelion huffed. His horse followed close behind Geralt’s as they made their way up the path. Just as swiftly as they’d entered the city, they had left it behind, now in search of the lost lord.

“It’s something at least,” Geralt said. “This was the direction he was seen going. Ernest said none of the horses were missing, and the woman who saw him didn’t say anything about one either, so it’s safe to guess he started on foot. Couldn’t have gotten too far that way.” 

Dandelion shrugged, urging his chestnut forward to have a better view of his companion’s face as they spoke. “Have you ever done something like this before? Hunting down missing Lords?”

“Mm. Not quite—no human ones at least. But I’m sure as shit not going to complain. Maybe this will be a peaceful contract after all.”

“Yes, a Witcher without a monster,” Dandelion hummed. “Supposedly at least! Could very well be one, if our mad lord and dearly departed governess are to be believed.” His eyes were glancing over Geralt with that delighted smile that only meant overeager speculation was soon to come.

Geralt just shook his head. “If there is one, it’s not a demon.” In one simple sentence he’d popped the bard’s dramatic bubble, drawing out the poet’s lower lip. The Witcher could only laugh at the man’s pout. “Don’t be so disappointed. I don’t know about you, but I can’t think of any creatures that just strangles children and brides. Any monster would’ve eaten their bodies too—certainly wouldn’t have framed a house maid for it. Probably just a very tall man with a very big grudge...” He looked to the horizon, urging Roach toward the nearing village he saw in the far distance. “Doesn’t take a demon to murder a child, that’s for damn sure.” 

“No,” Dandelion agreed. “But it would certainly make for a much better story...”


	2. That Haunted Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Witcher and the Bard are close on their missing Lord's trail, but in his wake are signs that point to something darker ahead of them...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 1 was p short. Have Chapter 2 for free.

The hunt became a series of village hopping, stopping at taverns and shops to see if anyone had seen the man. Ernest Formot had been kind enough to show them a portrait of his brother, but aside from the glasses the man occasionally wore, there was nothing particularly noticeable about him. What they’d gathered of him so far was he was fairly young, not particularly strong, and usually rather quiet.

“Of course,” Ernest had said. “Given the events of the past few days, I imagine he might be more... Manic.”

“That’s a nice way of saying insane,” Geralt had responded. Ernest had not combated the point.

Most of the folks who had seen him had described him as such—young, physically unremarkable, the glasses the main thing to spark their memory; that and his grim demeanor. Everyone had mentioned a book with a dark cover that he wrote in with some fervor, turning protectively if someone came close. He kept to himself in some corner, writing always. The other thing they all mentioned was the man’s eyes—how very cold and dark they were. He spoke to no one and left without a word. One bartender had remembered watching the man glance out the window what felt like every few seconds. Never hiding from the windows, but always keeping an eye out for something.

“He’s hunting his demon,” Geralt guessed. “That or it's hunting him. Perhaps both.”

Dandelion nodded. “It would seem so! It makes sense—wants revenge for his murdered family. ”

The witcher grunted in general agreement. There was more to this story, to be sure. There was a strange gap between the murders—large enough that it made him uneasy. This killer wasn’t a blind animal. There was intention. There was planning. Everyone seemed convinced of a monster. Geralt wasn’t so sure.

“What are you thinking?” Dandelion asked, cocking his head at his companion. Geralt was getting that frustrated arch on his forehead that happened when the Witcher was starting to care too much. Those yellow cat eyes looked up, locked in grim determination before being sighed away in soft dismissal.

“I’m think I’m getting to fucking old for this rich family drama,” he said and crossed his arms. “Never should’ve taken this damn job in the first place.”

“Unfortunately rich family drama pays,” the Bard hummed. “It’s a bit less smash and grab than you’re used to, but. If there _is_ a demon—or some other strange, murderous creature—our young Lord is charging right toward it.”

“Then Ernest can fully inherit their father’s estate and we can be done with this bullshit,” Geralt bit.

Dandelion just smiled. He knew his Witcher well enough by now to know better than to take Geralt’s words at face value. Despite all his blustering and all his 'Witchers don't get involved,' Geralt truly cared quite a lot. It was a flaw, perhaps but an absolutely endearing one. “Yes, I suppose that’s certainly _one_ ending to all this.” He settled himself next to Geralt, taking careful stock of his Witcher. “Any thoughts on our hypothetical monster?”

The man just grunted at first. Somewhat begrudgingly, he began. “There’s _something_ , no doubt. It’s not a demon—not a real one at least. Whatever it is, I think our Lord knew about it for a long time before mentioning it to anyone.”

“Really?” the bard cocked his head, curious. “What makes you think he knew more than anyone else? From what we’ve gathered, he’s the only one whose even actually _seen_ the damn thing."

“Someone in that family pissed something off,” Geralt said. “It’s been killing them off one by one. They’re trying to make a point—and I doubt it’s to Ernest.”

“Could be a curse, maybe,” Dandelion offered.

“Curses don’t strangle children.”

“No, but it could be some... bad luck curse, if there are such things. The mother died of disease after all, three years before the first murder, and then another three years passed between Wilam and the death of the bride. Perhaps that’s no coincidence.”

Geralt hummed in soft affirmation. There was very rarely coincidence in this world. Usually there was some bitter, brutal logic underneath, understood or not. He was all too familiar with the twisted path of destiny. It was awful to think the Formot family’s was to suffer so, but... Geralt doubted it was so simplistic. The universe was rarely so straightforward.

The weather was turning now, growing ever colder both from the turn of the seasons and the bitter climate they were venturing towards. The further north they traveled, the descriptions of the Lord began to change. Still was mentioned the glasses and the journal, but people now spoke of a young man full of rage—dark and distant; starting to show his more ‘manic’ side as Ernest had said.

“Even the whores wouldn’t touch ‘em,” a serving woman had said. “He might’ve had money, but he was...” The look on her face was one of fear and vibrant distrust. She just shook her head instead of trying to explain. “No one wanted to deal with that haunted man.”

The Witcher sat at the table, watching Dandelion chat with the barmaid. He was always glad for the Bards company, but it was especially welcome for this task. People weren’t exactly quick to share things with a Witcher. They were far more likely to sneer and close doors at him. If not for Dandelion’s warm and charming presence, no doubt they wouldn’t have even gotten in the door.

Finally the bard gave the woman a kind wink, a coin for her troubles, and turned back to Geralt with a grin. “Well, our man has been here,” he said, sitting across from his friend. “Just a few days ago. Much the same—dark, wild, writing, paranoid—but with a bit of a twist! He’d paid for a room and food, but ran out with his food half finished. Never came back. Left the key on the table too.”

“Mm...” Geralt began looking around the room, his eyes glancing off the glass of the windows. “Where was he sitting? Did she say”

“Not which table, specifically, just by the wall there,” the bard said, nodding towards the wall that shared the entrance as well as three small windows facing the street. The seats by two of them were occupied, so the Witcher happily pushed towards the third, looking out the small glass square. 

There wasn’t much to see but the buildings across the way and the street that cut between the town. There was nothing obvious that the man might’ve seen that Geralt could tell of now. There was a small alley between the two buildings... Perhaps not enough space for a giant demon, but... a large man could fit perfectly well.

“C’mon,” Geralt said, and walked outside with Dandelion in tow. He crossed the street and stepped into the alley. Yellow eyes intently scanned every inch of ground and plank of wood for any mark or sign of either the young lord or his monster. Dandelion made his way through doing the same, quiet for once as they searched.

Until, of course, he found something.

“Geralt!! Over here!!” The bard had turned the corner at the back end of the alley. At eye level, impossible to miss, someone had carved a crude “VF” into the wood of the building with an arrow pointing down the back of the street. “Victor Formot. Our Lord’s initials,” he said, looking up to the grim faced Witcher.

“Indeed,” Geralt hummed. His eyes followed the point of the arrow, searching for the next sign of the creature. There was a small gap of clearing between the back of the buildings and the line of the trees of about five feet, allowing a person to walk down the line behind them. From this point, Geralt couldn’t see any other sign, but it was certainly a lead.

“Seems we were right,” the Witcher said, his brow furrowed in concentration. “He's hunting his creature.”

“Yes, but the creature is playing with him. Rather blatantly,” Dandelion added, looking over the carved letters with his hand on his chin. “It _wants_ to be found by him.”

“No,” Geralt growled. “It’s leading him first.” He began to walk down the way. “And our damn lord is falling for it like a fucking idiot.”

They followed the trail through the town, keeping a careful eye out for any other marks. They found none for some time, traveling to the edge of the village right along the line of the forest. There was a single house this far out and even as they were walking towards it, Geralt could clearly see the VF carved into the wood of the house. This demon or creature, whoever it was, was demanding Victor’s attention and had no doubt gotten it with ease. There was no arrow here, but the order was obvious: Continue north. Pursue me.

“Curious,” Dandelion said, running an elegant finger over the carved letters. “I suppose our demon’s existence is no longer debatable.”

“His existence, no...,” Geralt agreed. “His nature, however. That’s still a mystery.”

The bard turned his lovely gaze over the small bit of land around them, noting any upset of this little house and it’s yard of dirt. It was perhaps a bit messy, but it didn’t look like a giant beast had crashed through it. “Curious no one saw him then. Ernest certainly made emphasis of the thing being gigantic, if nothing else. And yet—not a word!”

“We at least know it’s been here,” Geralt said, nodding to the letters. 

Dandelion blinked at the witcher’s words. A slow smile came to his face. “Right you are, my dear friend!” And without another word, he stepped the few steps to the door of the house and knocked. “Excuse me!” he called. “Might we have a quick word with the owner of this home?”

Geralt would’ve dragged the man away by the back of his doublet if he’d known—interrogating villagers very rarely, if ever, went well—but it was already too late. He could hear the sound of shuffling in the home and before long the door opened. Before them stood a very short, stocky old woman with a round face and stray gray hairs. She looked up to Dandelion, half way to asking “yes?” when her eyes went wide as they found Geralt and she began to scream.

The Witcher took a step back, looking away with a grimace. Of course. What else had he expected? No one liked Witchers. He was used to this by now. Gracious as he was, Dandelion was already attempting to calm her, but she calmed herself first it seemed.

“Fergive me sirs,” she said, a hand resting on her chest as she fought to catch her breath. “I thought you was that... thing come back.”

“Our apologies, madame,” the bard said, offering a small bow. “We didn’t mean to startle you! We simply had a few—”

But Geralt cut back in. “‘That thing?’” The woman reluctantly nodded. He pointed to the carving on the wall of her home. “The thing that did that?”

Again she nodded, her face set in a grim line. She stepped out of her home to look at the carved letters. “I heard the scratchin. Thought it was an animal, or someone’s shithead of a child. But I came out ‘n saw...'' She shuddered, grimacing at the thought of it. “‘E was huge. Swallowed in black. And when he turned on me, he...” Shaking her head, she looked up to the Witcher. “He had eyes like yours, Witcher. Yellow ‘n catlike ‘n... fuckin terrifying. I ran back in the house as quick as I could. Barred the door. Waited fer it t’pass. Or fer it t’kill me.”

Dandelion raised an eyebrow, looking up to Geralt. Something with the Witcher’s eyes? That was more than a bit concerning... What _exactly_ had the Lord gotten mixed up in?

“What did it look like.”

“Seemed like a man at first. Had hands and arms like a man... but it wasn’t no man I’d ever seen before.” She shuffled back to the door. “I dunno nothin’ bout it other than that!” She looked over her shoulder at the two of them. “I ain’t in trouble am I? Swear I didn’t do nothin—”

“Nooo, no, madame, you are not, I swear,” Dandelion assured her with his most charming smile. “You've been _very_ helpful. Thank you so much for your time.”

She nodded with a grunt and went back inside her home and the two men began to walk away, back toward the town.

“So,” the bard said. “It’s official: our hypothetical monster is no longer hypothetical.”

“Still not sure if it _is_ a monster,” Geralt grunted, his eyes narrowed on the village center.

Dandelion glanced at his partner. “You don’t think... No, a Witcher wouldn’t—”

“A Witcher _shouldn’t_. But... stranger things have happened, I’m certain.”

“Yes, but... a Witcher _killing_ a family one by one across multiple years?! That’s a little _too_ ridiculous. Besides, do you _know_ any of gigantic Witchers?!" There was a pause. Geralt silently shook his head. "Then there has to be something else at play here. Besides, Witchers can’t be the _only_ upright creatures with yellow eyes in this world! We shall keep it in mind as a possibility, but I won’t take it as truth unless we learn something far more concrete than an old woman's testimony.”

And that was that. Dandelion had firmly closed the book on the topic, so the Witcher said no more on it as they walked back into town.

“At least you’re getting ample material for your next ballad,” Geralt offered with a small smile. “Figured you’d be fucking giddy—cursed family, mysterious monsters, a man bent on revenge—”

“And a Witcher to come save the day in the end,” the bard finished with a grin. “Believe me, I’m _very_ excited for this tale to unravel itself. There’s a _lot_ here to take advantage of.”

Geralt nodded “When that barmaid called him ‘that haunted man’ I thought you might kiss her.”

“I should’ve,” The bard agreed. “I’ve been trying to capture the image of our young Lord and everything has just sounded so... Well, it's hard to capture sorrow without sounding over dramatic. But _ha_ _unted_! Now that’s just. _Delicious._ ”

They’d reached the village, their horses tied at the post outside the tavern now in sight. “Wait til we actually meet him. I’ll bet he’s a complete asshole.”

“Oh probably.” They both quickly began the task of undoing the ties on the leads. “But, ideally, my audience will never have to meet the man. They can simply enjoy the lovely romanticized version without worrying about how much of a little shit he probably is.” Dandelion mounted his horse. “In the same way I don’t mention that you snore in any of my songs.”

Geralt scoffed as he climbed on Roach’s back. “You always fall asleep before me, how would you know if I snore?”

“Oh please. We’ve shared a bed more times than I can count. Believe me, _I know._ ” He jerked his head back towards the end of the village and the awaiting wood. “C’mon then! Let’s catch ourselves a haunted Lord!”

And with that he took off down the street. Geralt smirked softly to himself and followed.


	3. The Brutal Touch of Ice and Rage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gap is closing now. They're so close to finding their man. But what else is hiding in the tundra?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was gonna wait a week to post the next chapter, but Quarantine got me fucked up. I might just do an every other day schedule. We'll see. For now, enjoy!

“ _ Oh thank the gods _ ,” Dandelion cried, “I thought fucking  _ balls _ were going to freeze off!!"

“Should’ve gotten a better jacket,” Geralt said simply as he held the door open for the poor bard-cicle.

“I didn’t think we’d be going this far north!!  _ Fuck. _ ”

They’d come to the last village before a range of snow covered mountains. The young Lord had finally gotten a horse, it seemed, and was starting to make good time in his journey, much to the shagrin of the Bard and the Witcher. Ideally, he was just as slowed as them now that the snow storms were getting stronger. More ideally he’d still be at this tavern and their bitter journey north could finally be done.

Tragically, reality was always far from ideal.

Dandelion ran straight to the fire in the tavern, first sticking out his hands and then turning around to warm his ass. The few patrons of this place stared at the newcomers as Geralt kicked snow off his boots. No doubt these were all regulars—no travelers were stupid enough to head to the mountains this time of year

No one but their damned lord. And them too, apparently.

“Gentlemen,” said the man behind the bar, watching them carefully. “What can I do for you?”

“Some food would be lovely,” Dandelion sighed. Sufficiently warmed, he finally stepped away from the fire. “And... some answers if you have them.”

The man had been about to move and fulfill the first request when the second made him stop. Geralt took a few steps forward to stand by his bard. “We’re looking for a man: A Victor Formot. Probably came through here a few days ago.”

“Ideally just yesterday,” Dandelion added. “We’ve been doing rather well at catching up so far! Frankly I’d hoped we’d find him here, but—”

“You’re looking for that crazy fella, aren’t ye?” one of the patron’s said—an older gentleman with a rugged greying chin. A wide grin broke his face as rough laughter left his throat. “‘S the only man whose come through here anyways. Better hope he’s who you’re lookin for or you’re shit outta luck.”

Dandelion grew a smile with ease as he slipped onto a stool next to the man. “Yes, that sounds like our man. Light hair, rather small, and—”

“Sickly,” added another patron from his corner. The two strangers turned their heads to better see him. It seemed they had the whole place’s attention. “Guant and sickly he was—coughing up a fuckin’ storm. Bit batshit as well. Didn’t look like he’d slept in fuckin months.” 

Geralt grunted as he joined the party at the bar. Having decided in their favor, the bartender went about procuring food for them—as well as ale upon the Witcher’s request. He turned to the other men, since they were apparently in a sharing mood.

“What did he say? Anything about where he was going?”

The man in the corner scoffed. “Ooooh yessir. Made it  _ very _ fuckin’ clear he was goin toward the mountains. Said his ‘destiny’ was waitin there for him.” The man shook his head, yellow eyes intently trained on him.

_ Destiny _ , He thought.  _ Of fucking course... _

“Said destiny won’t keep you from fuckin’ freezin’ t’death,” the man went on. “He tells us his horse died in the storm! He’d walked the rest of the way here. Told ‘em he’d need a dogsled if he wanted to get anywhere in this damned weather. He ‘requested to borrow mine.’ Told ‘em to fuck right off and the lad fucking  _ hoisted _ me.”

“He tried to at least,” the other cut in. “Lad was weak and outnumbered. Dropped a big fuckin bag of coins instead. They struck a deal—not that he knows the first thing about drivin a fuckin sled.” 

The man in the corner just shrugged. “M’dogs are smart. Figure he’ll die out there pretty quick. They know the way back.”

The Witcher nodded, taking in all the information. Their Lord was getting desperate, it seemed. Perhaps this fucking chase was finally coming to an end. 

The first man leaned toward the pair. “What’s a Witcher after ‘im for? He some kind of monster?” 

“Nobility,” Dandelion answered with a solemn nod. “Been giving us the slip since Denesle—though I doubt he even realizes it!! He’s too busy chasing after the creature who killed his wife. You might’ve noticed he was hellbent on the taste of vengeance? However, as you may have  _ also _ noticed, our dear Lord is not one for combat as well as... not altogether  _ there _ .” Both men nodded into their cups in silent affirmation. They were  _ well  _ aware of the lord’s current mental faculties. “His brother hired us to bring the man back home before he gets himself killed.” 

The men began to laugh, lifting their drinks in mocking toasts. “Best of luck too ya then,” laughed the man in the corner. “If I was a bettin’ man, I’m afraid I wouldn’t be paying in your favor. You’ll be lucky if he even makes it to the outpost.”

Geralt leaned forward. “Outpost?” 

“Last scrap of humanity before the mountains,” nodded the man next to Dandelion. “‘S rangers posted there to keep an eye out for fools like your precious Lord. If he’s smart, that’s where he’ll head.” He leaned his head forward, past the bard to get a better look at Geralt. “He’s chasin a creature is he? Somethin’ we should be aware of?”

Steady yellow eyes held the man’s skeptical gaze. “If the Lord’s already left, then it’s already passed you.”

“Mm. S’pose that’s a bit of a relief,” said the man in the corner.

“Suppose so,” the Witcher nodded. “Suppose it might also be much more alarming to have had a beast so near you and your homes without you ever noticing.”

The men were silent for a moment as the tavern keeper returned with food and drink. Geralt gave him a soft thank you and happily paid the man for his troubles.

~

It took most of the day to get to the outpost. Despite their strength and resilience, the horses were not faring well in the cold and wind. Neither man wished to press their faithful steeds and so they moved at a slower pace against the wind and watched the world slowly grow much dimmer and darker. The wind buffeted and blew against them, threatening to send them all the way back to where they started. It was far too cutting to maintain any decent conversation, and so the ringing silence under the hissing wind became their only accompaniment as they made slow progress.

The men at the tavern hadn’t been joking when they’d called the outpost a scrap of humanity. From the first moment it appeared in their vision, both waited for it to get larger as they approached. It never really did. It consisted of two very small, wooden buildings next to each other—One looked to be a barn of some kind, storing animals and vehicles. The other had a light in the window through which the moving figures of distant shadows could be seen. It was truly a place as good a sign as any. It may have been the physical manifestation of “the bare minimum,” but after such a dark, cold, and bitter trek, any sign of light and warmth was enough to make hearts rise.

Two rangers greeted them—a woman, Mira, and a man, Ravis, in simple, but thick uniforms—and helped the two men get their horses into the barn. Dandelion gave warm smiles and offered many thanks as the horses were settled for the night. Geralt made notice of no dog sled in the barn. He said nothing of it at first; not until they were inside the building with a roaring fire in front of them. Only then did he ask. He was somewhat surprised at being blessed with such a quick answer.

“Yes!” Mira said, blinking with surprise. “Victor. You’re looking for Victor? He was just here!! You’ve missed him by, oh... less than an hour? He came to us yesterday, practically half dead. He was feverish all night. It only broke sometime this afternoon. We were going to go into town to get a doctor for him, but then the storm kicked up.”

Ravis nodded. “We stepped out for a moment not long ago to check some of our traps for food. We came back just in time to see him take off.”

“Oh no,” Dandelion breathed. He looked to Geralt, who was already grimacing at what he knew had to be done, a growl in the back of his throat. The lengths he was going to for this damned Lord...

Yellow eyes opened, his brow set with grim determination.

“Did you see which way he went?” 

~

The winds had blown most of the sled’s tracks away, but not so much that Geralt couldn’t follow. He pressed on in the dark, Dandelion close behind despite the Witcher’s insistence to the opposite. It was a brutal trek, but with equipment from the Rangers and Geralt’s brilliant eyes, no darkness was an obstacle.

Geralt had been silently celebrating as the grooves of the dog sled were getting clearer and clearer. But in one flash of primal energy, his delight vanished. Lightning; A storm was rising and quickly. They were running out of time. They would either find the lord tonight or never at all. The desolate, white landscape lit up with every crash of lightning in second wide intervals as harsh winds blasted their faces. It was unforgiving to them, who were still of able body. Neither man was going to be surprised if they found a corpse before long...

So when Geralt’s eyes landed on a moving, dark figure in the distance, he found himself pleasantly surprised. He nudged Dandelion, pointing and ducking his head to speak directly into the man’s ear.

“He’s alive,” he said. “Maybe a mile out.”

The bard sighed a thanks to the heavens and gestured to keep walking. This wouldn’t be finished until they had him in hand, so onward they went. Geralt kept his eyes trained on the figure, wondering what in the hell the man was doing. It was slowly getting clearer with every step. He could see the dog sled nearby, which was reassuring they’d have a quick exit when they reached him. The man seemed to move back and forth between it and a few feet away, retrieving things and leaning on the ground to fuss with them. The Witcher narrowed his eyes, curious. Every flash of lightning both lit the scene and left him blind to adjust again as he tried to piece together the man’s strange actions. 

Of course by the time he was close enough to see and understand, he took off running as quick as he could, his curses swept up by the wind.

The man paid no notice as he drew closer, focused entirely on his task of assembling the device in his hands. It was a long, thin metal barrel, rigged with bracers down it. At its back was a small hammer and fuse with a small metal lever on the bottom. All in all, it looked to be a miniature cannon. And when it was finally primed and loaded, he raised it towards the nearest rise in the terrain.

Just as the lever was pulled, a hand smacked the device from his hands and the lord found himself swallowed in black. A loud BANG rang out that sounded even over the screaming winds

“No,” came Victor’s weak muttering. He began a pitiful attempt to fight against the arms holding him. His mutters became shrieks, howling in the Witcher’s grasp. “ _ No _ !!!  **_No_ ** I have not come so far  _ to fail _ !!”

The arms released him, throwing him to the ground instead. The Witcher glared down at the man, his face pulled into a snarl. “Yes,” he seethed. “You have.”

The lord was all people had said—fair haired, small and thin, as well as frighteningly gaunt and ghostly. His eyes were so deep set in his skull with wild, dark circles around them. He could barely lift his head to regard the Witcher, but he was making the greatest effort to. It was all his strength to move away. His eyes were wide, his jaw tight, but Geralt could already see the fight leaking from his body.

Still he met the grim, yellow cat eyes of the Witcher holding him, drawing upon the unrelenting power of the very storm destroying him. 

“I swear,” Victor breathed, face twisting with blind, delirious rage. “I will  _ destroy _ you...”

Then as the words left his body, so did consciousness.

“Geralt! Geralt!!”

The Witcher was still blinking, processing the lord’s words. He turned his head just as Dandelion ran up, huffing a warm cloud with every step. The bard took in the sight of the man, the dogs, the strange device. “What in the—”

Geralt leaned close to not shout over the storm, snapping back into action. “Get him into the sled. Quick,” came his simple order. He himself turned to the strange device, turning it over in his gloved hands. The small explosion had ruptured the barrel, but the intention of the design was clear enough. Where in the hell did a lord get something like this...?

“GERALT!!” 

The Witcher turned his head at the bard’s call. He’d gotten the lord part way into the sled, and had been lacing him into it when something had caught his eye. He raised a hand, pointing into the distance for the Witcher to see. 

Standing atop the next rise was a massive, dark figure. It was hard to see against the dark of the sky, only illuminated every few moments by each strike of lightning. It was a man, it seemed, but... not as one should be. He was much too tall, his arms reached too far, his neck too long, and his face... Dandelion shivered just to look upon it. It was, in its parts, a man, but as a whole, something altogether... other. It was wrapped in a black cloak with similarly long, dark hair blown about by the winds it barely acknowledged.

As the two men looked upon it, it gazed down upon them. Harsh, catlike yellow eyes glowed in the dark. Geralt stared, his brow furrowing in confusion. As those eyes met his... a strange feeling of recognition swept over him. Somehow, he knew those eyes—more so than just their design. He  _ knew _ them.

Just as the feelings were sorting themselves, the figure turned. In the next flash of light, it was gone.

The two men turned to each other, sharing a look of soft confusion and mutual horror. Their monster was indeed real. They’d seen it now, and yet there were only more questions.

But Geralt stepped closer, tucking the strange device under the cover of the sled. They’d found the man they were looking for and he wasn’t far from the brink of his own destruction. If anyone had answers, it would be him, and he wouldn’t be answering anything until he was recovered.

They turned the sled around, ready to return to the outpost. Neither man could help looking over their shoulder one last time. They knew they’d see nothing before doing so but they still turned. It had its eyes on them now. The creature would return, Geralt knew. As long as Victor was still alive, the creature would return. The man’s words rang about in his mind.

**_“I swear. I will destroy you.”_ **


	4. The Author of His Own Destruction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With the runaway lord now in their care, it's time to answer some questions. But will they be ready for the young man's twisted answers?
> 
> Notes at the End

The rangers acted  _ very _ quickly, carefully lifting Victor from the sled and rushing him inside. Mira quickly went about stoking the fire, gathering blankets, feeling the burning heat of the man’s forehead. Ravis settled the lord’s body on a bunk and began stripping him of his wet clothes.

In the hubbub, Geralt quietly dismissed himself to put the sled and the poor dogs into the barn. Dandelion followed, his eyes flicking nervously across the horizon until the door was closed behind them. He didn’t say anything until he was certain they were alone, but he didn’t exactly hold back once he’d decided they were.

“What the  _ fuck _ was that?!”

Geralt was busying himself with untying the dogs. “What?” he asked calmly.

“ _ ‘What’??!  _ That...!  _ Thing _ , Geralt!!! What was that?! It looked like some!! Mutated walking corpse!!”

A small smirk passed the Witcher’s lips for a second. Mutated indeed.

But Dandelion was not satisfied. “Have you seen anything like it before?!”

“Mm... Not exactly.”

The bard paused, waiting for more but of course it was not coming. He rested his hands on his hips. “...The fuck do you  _ mean _ , not  _ exactly _ ?!”

Geralt was quiet for a moment as he untethered the last dog, letting it join the rest of its team. They sniffed at one another, rubbing weary exhausted faces against each other as they settled into the stall next to Roach.

“You were right,” he nodded. “It’s not a Witcher. But it has a Witcher’s eyes.”

“I  _ also _ said a Witcher can’t be the only creature with eyes like that, Geralt. It—”

“ _ Dandelion _ ,” Geralt growled, rising and turning on his friend in one swift motion. “You’re not hearing me... it  _ has _ a Witcher’s eyes.” 

This gave the bard pause, brow furrowing as he sorted through Geralt’s meaning very carefully. “You mean... like he...” He held up his hand and mimed reaching out and plucking what Geralt could only assume was an eye from its socket.

“I don’t know,” the Witcher sighed. “But I’ve... I’ve seen those eyes before, I’m damn sure.”

Dandelion hummed in soft agreement, looking over his exasperated friend. They were both fucking exhausted—traveling nearly nonstop, pushing through such fucking frigid climates, interrogating and questing. And now... this strange creature had a Witcher’s eyes. The bard reached out a hand to Geralt’s shoulder, offering a small squeeze.

“Well... Seems our dear Victor will have much to answer for when he wakes up.”

“He will indeed,” Geralt grumbled. He reached into the sled, moving aside the cover to reveal the ruptured metal device. “For this as well.”

“Curious.” Dandelion reached over the edge and carefully picked the thing up, turning it over in careful fingers. “What a strange contraption... It’s like a small cannon!” He ran the pad of his index finger along the ridge of the rupture. “And not a very good one.”

“There’s a reason they don’t make cannons this small.” The Witcher turned it upright, looking down the barrel. “Metal’s too thin. You’ve got a better chance of blasting your own shoulder to bits than you do hitting your target. I’m just wondering where the fuck he  _ got _ this.”

Dandelion tilted his head to see the thing from all sides before just. Sighing. It was a strange artifact, but all it did was give more questions.

“Well, when the little shit wakes up, we’ll have to ask.” He took the thing from Geralt’s hand and tucked it back under the sled cover—just in case. “In the meantime... I think it’s time we got some rest, don’t you?” A gentle hand came to rest on Geralt’s back, gently rubbing up and down. “We’ve  _ more _ than fucking earned it by now.”

The witcher grunted in tired agreement. Together they slowly assembled a space for themselves in the final stall, laying out blankets and bedrolls. The night raged on outside, bitter and howling, but as Dandelion pulled a large comforter over the two of them, Geralt finally breathed a slow sigh of relief. The scream of the wind was ignored for the soft sound of Dandelion’s breath at his back and the Witcher sank peacefully into rest.

-

It was three days before Victor woke. Ravis did his best to keep the man’s fever down, staying close to his bedside just in case. Dandelion had taken to sharing that duty as well, reclining in the small cot across from the lord. It gave him time to write down the details of this grand adventure. He’d distill it down to something more consumable once they’d finished this, of course, but he didn’t want to miss a single detail.

Geralt had given himself the duty of tending to the animals best he could. It wasn’t a particular lengthy or difficult task, but it gave him the excuse of going outside and looking across the white horizon, watching for anything—any dark figure standing against the snow.

No such figures were to be found. So he fed the dogs and horses and dutifully brushed Roach, waiting for the fucking lord to wake up.

There were a few close moments—eyes open and words from his mouth, but most made no sense. He muttered apologies, promises, curses. He was awake but saw nothing. There was no real response to anything before him.

Not until Geralt had come to check on him. He’d taken a seat next to Dandelion, looking over the beginnings of this new tale when Victor had begun muttering. His eyes opened and he looked around the way he’d done a thousand times before. Dandelion had long since dismissed such actions, but the moment the man found Geralt’s eyes, he was screaming insults and threats. He attempted to lunge from the bed, collapsing almost immediately from the effort. His dark eyes were unrelenting, staring down the witcher with such pure rage. The rangers began restraining him, attempting to get him back in the bed while Dandelion pressed himself between the man and his friend.

“ _ You will not escape me, fiend, _ ” Victor snarled, fighting against the arms holding him down. “ _ I will not rest! I will hunt you to the ends of the world!! I will see you  _ **_destroyed by my hand_ ** _!! _ ”

“He thinks you’re—”

“I know what he thinks, Dandelion,” Geralt said, meeting the soft blue eyes of his companion. They shared a look, knowing exactly what image was being produced in Victor’s mind, but with the two rangers around, it was best not to mention the giant monstrous man with the Witcher’s eyes.

Between Mira and Ravis, the young lord quickly fell back into the bed, wincing as his boldness left him emptier than before. He was silent for the rest of the day, utterly pale, unmoving and still.

Finally—FINALLY on the third day, the fever broke. Slowly but surely the man came to, dark eyes cracking open to take in his surroundings.

“Where... am I?” He asked, shifting to sit up.

Immediately the whole of the outpost turned their attention onto him. Of course, Geralt and Dandelion waited patiently while the rangers handled his fragile physical state. He was fed a small bit of soup and was handed a cup of water that he held in a shaky hand, insisting on his autonomy. Only when they stepped back did the young lord even notice the others present.

“Are you traveling to the mountains as well?” he asked Dandelion.

“Not technically,” the bard said, looking to Geralt.

Victor’s gaze followed, going wide at the sight of the Witcher’s eyes. No screaming or threats came. Only stunned silence. 

The witcher nodded to him. “We’re here for you.”

“Me?”

“They came the same day you ran off,” Mira said, placing another pillow behind Victor’s head. “They’re probably the only reason you’re alive, your Lordship. You’d best thank them.”

Victor’s attention was pulled three ways at once, his eyes flicking between all of them in confusion.

“I... thank you for saving my life, but I confess I don’t. Understand. I’m not a lord, my...” His eyes slowly began to fall as brutal realization fell and finished the sentence for him.

“Your father was,” Geralt finished, his arms crossed. “In his death, you inherited his title and the Formot estate. Your brother hired us to get you so you can return home and help sort out the estate.”

“My brother...”

“Ernest,” Dandelion finished. “Paid us a rather  _ hefty _ sum to come find you and I  _ must _ say, you certainly made us earn it! But. The game is done now, your Lordship. It’s time for you to go home.” 

Victor winced, resting an arm across his thin chest. “Please, don’t... don’t call me that. I don’t need my family’s titles or estate. Ernest can do with it as he wishes.”

“You can tell him yourself when we bring you back.”

“ **_NO_ ** .”

In a moment, the soft, small weak boy had vanished and that angry, feral creature with wild eyes returned. He was a fine line away from snarling with every sentence, meeting the Witcher’s powerful gaze with his own. “You don’t understand. I don’t **_care_**. I don’t care what happens with the estate or titles—I don’t care what you’ve been paid or what my brother has told you. I’ve come here for a purpose. I have fought my way here to meet my destiny and I will not leave before I do so— ** _damn_** all the rest!!” 

He made a move to climb out of the bed. Before he could even touch a foot to the ground, a firm hand gripped his shoulder and pinned him with no small amount of force back onto the bed. The White Wolf had  _ pounced _ . 

“I noticed of all the questions, you don’t ask why your brother hired a  _ Witcher _ ,” he said, a growl in the back of his voice. “I’ve seen your fucking destiny,  _ your lordship _ . And I think you have some explaining to do.” 

Dark eyes stared back up at Geralt. The rage had left him a dawning realization flooded in in a cold wave.

“ _ You’ve seen him _ ,” he breathed. Geralt nodded. A shaking hand reached out to rest on the Witcher’s cheek. It was almost a tender gesture if the man’s eyes hadn’t been so full of fear, nearly welling with tears. He whispered,, “then you know why I can’t return. I can’t go home knowing he’s still out there, what he’s done... He is my doing. I will be his undoing as well.”

Dandelion scoffed, happily inserting himself into the moment. “You’ll be your  _ own _ undoing  _ looong _ before you’ll be his at this rate. Your destiny for the moment is to rest and recover. And perhaps, while you’re doing so, you can explain everything. From the beginning.”

The young lord sighed, settling back. Geralt did the same, taking his place by Dandelion and gesturing for Victor to go on.

“It is... a very long story.”

“I’m sure it’s not as long as you think,” Dandelion assured him with a flourish as Geralt sat on the cot next to him, the two of them looking across as the shivering lord. The bard lay a hand on his chest. “I am Dandelion the Bard. You may have heard of me...?” The lord shook his head apologetically. “Mm. Well then. No accounting for taste, I see.” He raised a hand to gesture to the white haired man next to him. “This is my very good friend and traveling companion, Geralt of Rivia.”

“A Witcher,” Victor nodded. “Perhaps it’s destiny that’s brought you to me. If I cannot kill it, then...” His eyes glanced toward the two rangers who’d busied themselves on the other side of the small building. Ravis was cleaning up the small kitchen while Mira took stock of what herbs and medicines they had.

The lord’s dark eyes turned back to the Witcher and the Bard. “When we are alone... I shall tell you everything, I promise.”

“You’d fuckin’ better,” Geralt sighed. There was a grunt in his voice that Dandelion perfectly translated to  _ ‘I’m too fucking old for this.’ _

It made him smile.

-

It was easier than any of them thought to get rid of the rangers. The next morning, Dandelion had simply mentioned that perhaps before another storm hit, they should take advantage of the quiet and get a doctor and some supplies from the village. Victor was doing better, but his progress was slow. Ravis agreed and, with Geralt’s firm assurance they’d make Victor rest, the pair had hitched up their own sled and departed for the village, promising to be back, at the latest, by first light the next morning.

Indeed, Victor would rest. But first, Geralt and Dandelion needed to hear his story.

And what a fucking story it was...

“I’ve always been something of a curious child,” Victor began. “I was fascinated by the wonders of life; by its very cycle of being—so chaotic and yet perfectly structured. I wished to know how it all worked. I wished to understand. For my entire childhood, I spent every moment I could reading and learning, seeking answers to questions it felt no one had bothered to ask. Were it not for my mother’s gentle insistence, I’d have had no life but that of studying and books. She introduced me to the two kindest souls that could’ve graced my dark life: My beloved Elizabeth, and my dearest friend Hendrick. We three grew up together. I was the mind of logic. Hendrick was the mind of adventure and excitement. And Elizabeth... she was our heart.”

“Elizabeth,” Dandelion interrupted. “Your bride?” Victor nodded, the motion seeming to make him sick for a moment.

“It was no surprise that we were to be wed when we were older. She herself was an orphan, but her lineage was known. She came from as good as us—not that I ever cared for such things. I adored her from the moment she came into my life.”

“Skip to the part where a giant monster comes into play,” Geralt groaned. “I’m glad you had friends as a kid. But it doesn’t do fuck all for us now.”

Victor huffed a small laugh. “Fair enough sir. Suffice it to say, I dedicated myself to knowledge and science. I thought it an innocent line of study—to simply know. But with the knowledge came the philosophers and wild fantasies. I consumed old tomes of long discarded alchemical theories and devoted myself, an idealistic child, as their modern pupil.

“For the first years of my life, I was educated at home through various tutors and my own ravenous consumption of my father’s library. By the time I was of age, it had been well obvious that I was to become a scholar and learn from the greatest minds I could find. I set off to do just that. Blind with delight and eagerness at taking part in the turning of minds and philosophies of the era, I stepped boldly into the heart of academia...” A small smile came to his face. “And was quite promptly knocked on my ass.”

Dandelion nodded with an understanding hum. “Collegettes will be like that. It can be quite a shock to the system, suddenly finding oneself in the center of the debaucherous circle that is higher education.” 

“Indeed. And with my outdated ideals held so tightly to my being... I might as well have painted a target on my forehead. For all the mockery and the teasing, I managed to hold tight to them. I still wanted to learn. And I wanted to understand.” A fire came to those dark eyes as he spoke, blazing even now as the young lord set his jaw. “More than anything I wanted to prove them all wrong... There were things I understood that no one seemed to see—a thin, glowing line between magic and science that held such potential, if only I was allowed to study such things! My frustrations seemed to rise exponentially the more I pushed to pursue my path. Professors and students alike mocked my ideas and my findings. But the more they berated me, the more my passions rose. I vowed to chase my destiny and show them the true potential my ‘outdated beliefs’ could wield. Mind you, this was not just arrogance, though I have no doubt that played a part in my downfall. I had done small, safe experiments. I had the proof and the knowledge! But every time I attempted to show them...” His hands were clenched into tight fists. The blankets on his lap were the only thing keeping his nails from sinking into his own flesh.

Suddenly the man’s demeanor changed, his eyes wide, frantically darting around the room. “Where... Where is my journal?!” He scrambled to get out of his bundle of blankets, nearly collapsing in the effort. “I...I need—”

Once again, Geralt placed a hand on the man, pressing him back down—this time with much less aggression. “Calm down before you break yourself.”

“Not to worry, your Lordship!” Dandelion jumped up and quickly stepped towards the fire where Victor’s damp clothes had been set aside to dry. “It was set aside with the rest of your things when we brought you here.” All it took was a quick bit of rifling to find the black leather journal. The bard took a moment to turn it over in his hands, quickly thumbing through the pages. “I will say, I’m most curious about this. Just about every tavernkeep we asked mentioned you writing in this.” 

“Please,” Victor cried, reaching out desperately for the book. Somewhat reluctantly, Dandelion placed it into his hands. The young lord grasped it like a man dying of thirst clutching a chalice. “This is the only account of all that’s happened...” He opened to an early page, one covered in writing, the other a carefully made diagram of the anatomy of a mouse. “Every test, every experiment... I kept it all in here. I hoped one day to show them, but...” He closed the book, resting a hand on top of it. “I suppose it doesn’t matter anymore.”

Geralt rolled his eyes so hard and yet somehow the dramatic young lord didn’t notice. Dandelion did, however and stifled a laugh best he could as he returned to his seat by Geralt’s side.

“Do go on,” the bard said, crossing his legs and leaning forward. “You were at school, no one believed in your work, so you...” he rolled his hand in a gesture to continue.

Victor nodded. “So I left the school. I struck out on my own. If my words would not be heard, then I determined my actions and my discoveries would be undeniable by anyone who calls themself a man of knowledge. I would force them to see if I had to...”

A low growl was building in Geralt’s chest, barely soothed by the gentle pressure of the bard leaning against him. Something in him was rising like the hackles of a beast. He didn’t like where this was going. Not at all.

“I did what I had to do,” Victor went on, his eager momentum in speach slowing as his own expression took a dark turn. “I knew I had to create something that they couldn’t ignore. It was my  _ destiny _ —to show them; to bring forth a new era of understanding!!” A grim shadow crossed the man’s face as he looked down. “I... I couldn’t have known what it would—”

“What,” Geralt said, yellow eyes narrowed, “the  _ fuck. _ Did you do...?”

Victor did not look to meet his gaze.

“...In seeking to understand the energies of the world,” he said, his voice quiet. “I had... stumbled upon something. Life is in a constant cycle—but it always has a conclusion, as well as an inception. But what if these two absolutes could be bypassed and assembled in a different fashion? After all, a person is made of two parts—a physical form and an unseen life force. And I, after such time as I had delved into my frantic curiosity... discovered a way to...  _ create _ that life force.”

A tense silence hung in the air as both men stared at Victor. Dandelion’s eyes were wide with pure astonishment. But Geralt...

“You fucking  _ idiot, _ ” he snarled. “What in the name of fucking  _ sanity  _ were you thinking?!”

Victor winced. “But it  _ worked _ . Dammit all, it  _ worked _ !!”

“Of course it did.” The Witcher’s teeth were bared. “Congratulations. You must be so fucking proud.”

The bard’s head whipped back and forth between the two of them, his brow furrowed with soft confusion. “Wait. Hold on, you two seemed to have skipped a step.” 

Geralt scoffed. “Is it not obvious? Our dear Lord has been chasing after his own creation.”

“ _ No _ .” Dandelion turned to look at Victor, who seemed moments away from bursting into tears. “That giant man. You  _ made _ him?!”

“I did!! I did,” he cried. “Gods help me, I did!! I was  _ possessed _ , mad with my own knowledge and my fury to prove myself. At first it was a victory!! He was a perfect being—strong and resilient—more than a mere man!! Not only had I surpassed every damn scholar who’d scoffed at my name, I had done what no one else had ever done: I had  _ created life _ ! I was to be the father of a new era of possibility and knowledge, but—”

“But instead it started killing people,” the Witcher scoffed. “Because you tampered with forces you couldn’t control.”

Bitter tears fell from Victor’s face, but neither Dandelion or Geralt could bear to feel sympathy for him in that moment. Dandelion was horrified. Geralt was unrelenting in his rage—but for a moment it pulled back as another question rose to his mind. Another wave was building.

“You created the life force... Where did you get the body?”

The young lord’s eyes closed. In the light, his pale, sorrowful profile created a picture of pure agony. Geralt wanted to punch him. He would’ve too if the man hadn’t dared to answer.

“I did what I had to do,” He repeated, his voice slow and hollow, hesitant to reach the end. “...For my classes, I had taken up a position in a nearby mortuary...”

“Oh. Oooooh  _ no _ .” Dandelion leaned back, hands covering his face as the mental images that began to come in—the things Victor had done.

“I took the position before my purpose had fallen on me, I promise. But, that too I took as another step towards my destiny. At every turn, the way was opened for me before I’d ever looked to find the door.” 

“The eyes,” Geralt bit, narrowing his own. “Where did you—”

“We were asked to help with all kinds of outside tasks,” the man grimaced. “If there were bodies that needed to be moved and taken care of, they passed through our hands, be it from disease, old age, murders, or war... The body of a Witcher came across our table. He’d been stabbed in the heart, but... the rest of him was perfectly intact.” 

“Coen,” Geralt breathed. “ _ Shit... _ ”

Victor nodded. “I took only the best parts I could find. Again, a door was opened, and—“

In a flash of motion, Geralt had hoisted Victor by his shirt, hauled a good too feet above the cot.

“Don’t you  _ dare _ try and pin this on destiny,” The Witcher snarled. “ _ Destiny _ didn’t make you cut up those bodies.  _ Destiny _ didn’t force you to  _ stitch ‘em back together _ . And it sure as  _ shit  _ didn’t make you gouge out the eyes of a dead man!  _ You _ made that choice.  _ You  _ butchered corpses for your fucking vanity project, you fucking sadistic  _ coward _ .” 

Victor was scrambling against the grasp, tears falling from his eyes as shaky hands clung to Geralt’s arm. “Please,” he breathed. “You have no idea the regret—HUUH.” The Witcher dropped him wholly unceremoniously.

“Geralt.” A hand was suddenly very gently placed on the Witcher’s arm. Dandelion was looking to him with that soft concern. He turned away from it, grimacing as he stood by the fire. “He’s absolutely a bastard,” the bard continued, “but it’s unfortunately in our best interests to keep him alive.”

“We can always tell Ernest he died in the cold.” Those furious cat eyes fixed on Victor with utter fury. “All I need for payment is a head—same as any monster.”

“ _ Please _ ,” Victor pleaded. “I  _ know _ . I deserve your hatred and more—no one despises my actions more than I, who’ve had to live with my crimes in silence!!”

A loud SMACK rang out as Dandelion’s open palm cracked across the lord’s face, stunning the invalid. “An innocent woman was  _ executed _ , framed for the crime  _ your _ creation committed!! I’d argue she has  _ far _ more reason to despise you. You chose to construct a monster and then chose to say nothing when she was on trial! She most certainly did _ not _ choose to die for it.” He lowered his head to be eye to eye with the crying lord.

“Just because a door is opened doesn’t mean you have to walk through it.”

~

Dandelion had gone to bed. He’d been reluctant to sleep without Geralt, but until Ravis and Mira came back it was better to have someone sleeping in the same room as Victor, as much as they resented having to care for the man’s well being.

At least in the cold of the night, Geralt could breathe easy. Leaning against the wall of the barn, the white covered land seemed to stretch out forever. There was no storm, just a bitter wind that couldn’t quite reach him if he kept his back to the wall. Every deep breath he breathed was carried off, ripped right from his nostrils and carried into the night. If he stepped back into that small, warm room, breathing the same air as that pathetic lord...

There—the slightest crunch. Geralt froze at the sound, tilting his head towards it. Nothing more came forth.

Only the wind rang out.

“He’s still alive,” Geralt said. “If that’s what you’re checking for...”

Silence.

“He told us about you. How he made you...”

A gust rattled the wood panels of the barn.

More silence.

“But did he tell you everything,” came a low voice, just around the corner of the barn. It was deep and rough in its timbre, but clear and perfectly articulate.

“Not likely,” Geralt responded. “He certainly didn’t tell us you were intelligent.”

The creature gave a grunt in response. “I’m sure he wishes I wasn’t. I’m sure I do as well...”

“Make things easier,” Geralt agreed. It was always easier when a creature was dumb and wild. Its kills were accidents and tragedies easily rectified by cutting off the thing’s head. 

There was nothing about this situation that would end easy.

The creature was silent. For a moment, Geralt had begun to wonder if it had just walked away when it spoke again. 

“I have killed,” it said. “But I am not without reason.”

“I don’t doubt it.”

“I seek justice.”

“You seek vengeance,” the Witcher corrected. “And I can’t blame you for that.”

“Has he told you what he promised to do for me?”

Geralt was quiet, pondering those strange and curious words. “...No, I don’t believe he has.”

“Ask him,” the monster said. “If he’s so bold naming my crimes, make him admit the life he took as well.”

“I will. Thank you.” 

An odd silence filled the white darkness. Neither man nor creature spoke. Neither moved from their place.

“Once he’s well, we’ll be taking him back,” Geralt said. “Will you try and stop us when we do so?”

Silence. A gust of wind rattled the panels of the barn. Geralt pulled the dark cloak around his shoulders a bit tighter.

“I do not seek my creator’s death,” came the creature’s voice. “Nor do I wish any harm upon you, who is a stranger to me.”

“What  _ do  _ you seek then?”

Silence again, stretching out through the cold air, threatening to seep into the Witcher’s bones and make him shiver.

“For so long,” came the voice, “All I have sought was his misery—to make him as wretched as I.” 

“And now?”

“Now...”

Geralt watched a small flurry of wind kick up in a weak dance. As quickly as it rose, it fell, lost in the night.

“Now I simply seek an ending.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhhhh! And there we go! If it wasn't clear before where my design comes from, I hope you're following now!!! I'm so excited you guys, I worked really hard on this and we're just getting to the good stuff!!! Thanks for coming this far. There's SO much more to come <3


	5. Men Who Smell Like Death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More and more pieces of the young lord's twisted story come to light. Geralt and Dandelion begin to try and form their plan for bringing the lord without incurring the wrath of the creature.

The rangers returned the next morning, bringing with them some much needed levity. The buffer of other people helped keep the mental images of Victor and his corpses at bay. He slept, unbothered, pale and pathetic. Looking at him, you’d never know the horrific crimes against nature the man had committed. In his distressed and sickly state, he looked less like a grave robbing psychopath and more like an overdramatic portrait entitled “Agony.”

The doctor had insisted all the man needed was rest and food—he’d seemed to have been lacking both for some time. So, the young lord rested, waking to eat and make gentle conversation with the rangers. Neither bard nor Witcher quite knew how to regard him anymore. As subtle as they could manage, both began spending time in the barn together. The dogs had taken a bit of a shine to Dandelion, which was both a blessing and curse anytime the man tried to pull out his Lute. He’d made a makeshift seat out of an overturned bucket, plucking out potential melodies for future use. Every so often a snuffling snout would push into him, forcing him to pause his music to gently push it away. Geralt sat against the wall, watching the process repeat itself with soft amusement.

Suddenly the bard stood with a huff. “It doesn’t make sense,” he declared.

“What doesn’t?”

Carefully Dandelion placed his lute back in its case, making sure the latches closed just in time before a few curious, damp noses to come poking at it. “This whole damn situation! We are undoubtedly missing parts of this story and our dear, depraved _lord_ won’t be sharing any of it any time soon.” He came and sat down next to Geralt, who shifted to the side to make room for him.

“I keep thinking about what you said,” he went on. “That Victor knew about the creature for so long and told no one. I’d hoped you were wrong, because what sick, selfish _bastard_ would know about such a thing and tell _no one_ ?! _Especially_ after his own brother was murdered?!” He turned to Geralt. “How many years between Wilam’s and Elizabeth’s deaths?”

“Three.”

“ _Three years_ ,” he exclaimed. “For three years he lived with his family and he said nothing. Did he think it would just _go away?!_ ”

“Would you have believed him about a monster like that?” the Witcher asked. “We saw the damn thing. We saw it’s marks. Nice, rich families wouldn’t want to believe their precious son could do something so completely fucked up.”

Dandelion grumbled. “I bet Ernest would believe it.”

“Mm,” Geralt agreed. “Brothers tend to know.”

The bard was quiet for a moment, looking up at his grim faced friend. “...You knew the Witcher whose eyes he—”

Geralt nodded. “Coen. He was a friend of Ciri’s while she was training at Kaer Morhen. Good man. He was killed in the battle of Brenna. Has to be him. It’s fucking rare that a Witcher ever gets buried. Usually whatever kills us eats us. Guess it makes sense that the one who didn’t gets his corpse fucked with.”

“I’m so sorry, Geralt.” The bard rested his head against Geralt’s shoulder. “This whole thing is just completely twisted.”

The Witcher grunted in dark affirmation. With every additional piece of the puzzle falling into place, the gruesome overall picture was coming into view. Geralt was fairly certain he didn’t want to see its completion.

“In a bitter and rather horrifying way, I suppose it is also rather impressive, though,” Dandelion hummed. “Our dear lord, so young and yet... he actually did what he sought out to do. He created a life! He _made_ a complete being from cobbled together body parts.”

“I dunno how complete it is,” Geralt grumbled.

“It’s complete enough that it’s been luring Victor across the damn continent without barely ever lifting a finger! It was clever enough to frame a woman for _murder_. It’s certainly not a half wit.”

“It’s definitely intelligent.” The Witcher looked down to his hands as an excited dog with long, dark fur pushed its head between them. “...I spoke with him.”

“You did _what?!_ ” Geralt just nodded, giving the dog a good scratch behind the ears. “When?!”

“Last night. Heard it creeping around the barn. We had a little chat.”

Dandelion shifted on his knees to better face his Witcher. “And you’re waiting til _now_ to tell me this?! What did he say?!!”

The dog scampered off to play with the others, who were playfully tackling each other across the way.

“That Victor hasn’t told us everything.”

The bard huffed. “Well that rather goes without saying.”

“And that he doesn’t want to harm us. Even said he doesn’t want the man dead.”

Dandelion’s brilliant blue eyes narrowed. “Now _that_ I have a hard time believing.”

Geralt shrugged, leaning back with a sigh. “That’s what he said. Just wanted to make him suffer.”

“Mm... Suppose that does explain murdering the family one by one.”

Geralt nodded. “He also said Victor promised to do something for him.” His eyes fell to Dandelion. “And that Victor killed someone.”

“Bold of a child strangler to start pointing fingers,” the bard huffed. “He have anything to say on that point?”

“Not specifically. Just that he has his reasons.”

“For killing a child?”

“Didn’t say they were good reasons.” Dandelion hummed, leaning against Geralt’s shoulder. “Honestly, he sounded as frustrated and annoyed as we are with all this.”

“Oh I can imagine! We’ve been at this for a week and I’ve already slapped the lord once. If that whiny, pale little shit was _my_ father... Hell, maybe I’d start strangling children too.”

Geralt couldn’t help but laugh, his shoulders shaking and a smile gracing his scarred face. It was perhaps not a handsome expression, but Dandelion adored it. Any time he could draw it forth was a moment he treasured above all others. Even in the middle of the freezing tundra, the bard was happy in the warmth of his Witcher’s smile.

“Dandelion the Child Strangler,” Geralt chuckled. “There’s your next ballad.”

The bard tossed his head back with a delighted cackle. “Oooh _THERE'S_ an idea. Can you even _imagine_?!” 

“It won’t win you any awards,” the Witcher shrugged. “But I’m sure you could make it quite an earworm.” 

Dandelion scoffed with a laugh. “Indeed I could. However, I can't see a wildfire song telling the continent that I’ll strangle their children doing me any favors!" He gave Geralt's shoulder a nudge with his own. "I think I'll leave thematic intimidation off my calling card. I’d hate to take it from you.”

“Ah,” Geralt scoffed. “How kind.” 

“I really am, aren’t I?”

The two chuckled, leaning against each other in the barn. Some of the dogs had settled by now, others still pawed at each other in play. Somewhere in the night was a created monster whose creator was sleeping and bemoaning himself just next door. Outside winds were buffeting the building, dashing between mountains, kicking up snow in flurries and blasts.

But in here, two old friends were making jokes about strangling children and sharing each other’s warmth. Despite the chaos, it wasn’t much different than any other time they were together.

 _Could use more alcohol,_ Geralt thought. But then again that was his first critique of most situations.

“...Geralt?”

He grunted loosely in response.

“I think I know a way we could get some answers...”

-

“Augh, he does _love_ to go on and on about _mountains_ , doesn’t he?”

“I’ll take your word for it.” 

Of course, Dandelion wasn’t paying attention to Geralt’s responses. He simply wished to comment on what he was reading. Victor’s journal was a small but rather thick book and Dandelion had spent the better part of the evening reading it, narrating the interesting and helpful chunks out loud, offering occasional glances of pages and diagrams to Geralt, and making snide comments about Victor’s writing style all throughout. So far, most of it had confirmed everything they already knew. More than anything it was the documentation of a person going absolutely mad. 

But then when the long awaited entry was to arrive, there was a bit of a surprise. Dandelion tipped the book toward Geralt, holding down the pages to show the spine. 

“Someone’s ripped these pages out,” he said. “And not cleanly. If it wasn’t for what we know these pages to contain, I’d say it was an accident, but...”

“I highly fucking doubt it. Everything he’s done to this point has been fucking methodical.”

“He’s also absolutely mental at this point in his journey,” the bard offered with a shrug. “Of course, he could’ve torn these pages out at any time, I suppose. It’s hard to say. I doubt he’d tell us either way.” He turned his attention back to the book, holding down the torn bit of page still stuck in the spine. “The next entry is three months later. Oh, this is quite familiar! _Recovering from a fever_ ... For three months?” He turned a page. “And I thought _I_ was a delicate flower.” He lowered the book to make eye contact with Geralt. “We are _not_ staying here three months. If we stay three more _days_ , I’ll lose my mind!!” 

“Keep reading,” the Witcher sighed. “We’ll worry about our timetable later.”

And so he kept reading, noting the distinct lack of Giant Monster in the narrative. 

“Apparently he really did assume it just _went away_. You know, for a genius he really is a fucking idiot.”

Geralt grunted in affirmation. “I noticed.”

The next few entries documented his return to school. There was nothing too significant: Longing for home, avoiding all science, but mostly ruminating the new, mocking nickname the other students had given him.

“Frankenstein,” Dandelion said. His brow furrowed as he rummaged through his mind, searching for the meaning. “Oh... It’s on the tip—”

“It’s a man who smells of death,” Geralt said. “Mortuaries use frankincense to drown out the smell of rot and decay, making the men who work there stink of it. It came to mean a sort of... grim reaper figure in certain places. The Frankenstein comes to town and brings away death.”

“Mm... Then I suppose our dear Victor really _is_ a Frankenstien.” 

“And so is his creation.” 

The next important entry was _two years_ later. The death of Wilam, calling the young man back home with his family. Many pages of sorrow and bemoaning the tragedy to strike his family.

As well as seeing a giant, unnaturally strong, and swift figure cross the mountain.

The narrative of Jessene’s trial came and went, the primary focus on _Victor’s_ suffering of all people. Dandelion had plenty to say, but managed to restrain himself enough to keep reading. 

“Fucking hell, the man sure loves his boats and hikes,” he sighed. “Screaming at the sky, it’s all very drama—oh! Geralt.” Quick blue eyes skimmed the page as the Witcher turned his full attention. “He met with the creature! They had a whole discussion, it seems. You’re right, he is _quite_ intelligent.” He quickly skimmed and flipped through the next few pages. “Certainly gives our boy an earful. Seems after Victor created him, the little shit ran. Our dear monster was left on his own... I’ll spare you the long, rather heartbreaking details, but... our creature attempted to make friends with humanity and was brutalized and attacked every time.”

“Mm.” Geralt’s mind flashed over the altogether too many stories in his mind—every time someone screamed or ran, refused him entry or service, or spat on him the moment they saw his eyes and knew what he was. And he wasn’t even made from corpses.

“I can imagine.”

“Strangled poor Wilam in a spurt of rage,” Dandelion went on, turning pages as quickly as he could without losing meaning. “But he...” The bard straightened up in his seat. “Oh... oh my.” His eyes looked up from the page, meeting Geralt’s with an expression that was somewhat worry, somewhat terror.

“He asked Victor to make another like him. A _woman_. So he wouldn’t be alone.”

Geralt blinked.

“...Fuck.”

The next entries were much in the same as those in the beginning, simply with the added touch of pained, dramatic monologues. He began to prepare to build another body while his friends attempted to help keep him grounded. His beloved Elizabeth implored him to stay and marry her. He agreed to an engagement, but did not stay, promising to wed when he returned. His greatest friend Hendrick demanded to come along. Begrudgingly, Victor agreed. A number of small passages were dedicated to Victor’s love for Hendrick, without whom he could never rise from his darkness.

Dandelion couldn’t help the smirk that came to his face as Victor’s words went on and on for his friend. He looked to Geralt with a smile. “Tell me, Geralt, am I ‘a being formed in the very poetry of nature’?” 

The Witcher huffed a laugh. “Indeed you are, Dandelion. Poetry incarnate. Beautiful and wonderful and melodious and fucking confusing to any normal man.” 

“Mm. Then it’s a good thing you’re not a normal man.”

“Indeed it is.”

The bard continued to read, flipping through the pages as Victor parted from his friend, claimed a laboratory, and began to assemble a second creature. There was such self loathing in every page even as he continued to do the very thing he despised. Between the travel, the assembly, and Victor’s own resistance to the task, years had passed since Wilam’s murder and since the deal had been made.

Finally Victor’s spirit seems to succumb. He builds the creature, assembles her with as much care and attention as he gave the first. But alongside it he builds something else—a weapon with which to kill that he made.

Dandelion lifted the page to read the words correctly. “‘She will be the triumph of my effort—the pinnacle of creation. I will bring her to life to fulfill my promise. And with these same hands I will undo my crime with another. I will not be forgiven. But I will make right my great mistake. I am Frankenstein. I will bring death to that which never should have lived. This is my destiny.’”

Geralt’s stomach began to twist, a growl just behind his teeth. He wanted to bust into the building next door and throttle the pale man until he was unconscious for good. What a fool. What a twisted bastard, playing with life and death like a damn toy. And yet... his weeping cries declared _him_ the victim. 

“It happens,” Dandelion sighed. “He brings her to life, gives her to the monster, immediately kills her. He attempts to kill the monster too, but he flees... Not before promising to... Mm. ‘to make my misery his sole occupation. He swore to be with me on my wedding night and vanished into the darkness. If that is to be the hour of our final battle, then let it come.’”

“He thought the monster would come for him,” Geralt sighed. “But instead it killed his bride.” 

“And Hendrick,” the bard added. “After the woman creature’s death, the monster killed Hendrick as revenge. Victor kills someone the monster loves, the monster kills someone _he_ loves—You know, we should ask him for a name. It’s a bit obnoxious calling him ‘the monster’ or ‘the creature’ over and over again.”

“I’ll be sure to ask him,” the Witcher grunted. “These two really just went back and forth, killing family.”

“Seems so,” Dandelion sighed. “...On a lighter note, Lord Formot died of somewhat natural causes. Victor claims it’s a ‘broken heart’ but. I have a feeling their doctor would have a different opinion.” Quick fingers skimmed the next few pages before reaching the last few blank pages at the end. “He caught a sign of the creature and followed it north, as we suspected. And now... here we are.” He closed the book with a heavy sigh. “Well...” 

“What a fucking mess,” Geralt growled

Dandelion tucked the book into his jacket with a nod. “Indeed. Seems our Victor has led quite a life!” 

“If we travel all the way back to the Formot estate, the creature will follow.”

“Assuming the shrieking lord will come with.”

“Eh. Nothing a solid hit can’t fix.” Dandelion gave him a look, but Geralt pressed on. “I’m far more concerned about the giant man with a grudge than the waif who can’t get out of bed without trembling. The creature isn’t just going to let him go.”

Dandelion cocked his head. “I thought you said he didn’t want to kill Victor.”

"He did," the Witcher nodded. "But he also said that he wants an ending.”

“What the fuck does that _mean_?” 

“I don’t know, Dandelion,” the Witcher sighed. “Probably that he’s as fucking annoyed with this whole mess as we are! Frankly, we should just toss the lord outside and let the two of them work it out themselves.”

“Yes, that _would_ be easier,” Dandelion mused, his eyes carefully watching his friend as he climbed back onto his feet. “Unfortunately, if I’ve learned anything traveling with you, it’s that things like this are never _easy_.” He stepped right in front of the Witcher, silently demanding to be seen as blue eyes met yellow. A small smile came to his face, breaking something in Geralt and letting some of his tension fall away. 

“I can’t promise things will go perfectly,” the bard went on. “But I will promise that we will do our best. And that we’ll figure it out together.”

Dandelion had a brilliant winning smile that he flashed to every audience and every woman he ever tried to charm. But he also had another truer, warmer smile that he saved for smaller moments; softer moments like these. It was one of these that he gave to Geralt now, bringing a small sense of peace to the maelstrom that was raging in the Witcher’s head. He treasured that smile. It showed his friend as the person he truly was: A delightful, kind, good man.

“Now! While you get us ready for bed, I’m going to very carefully put the Lord’s journal back.” Dandelion picked up his coat and began walking backwards towards the door that led outside. “It’ll just be a moment.”

“No dogs in the stall tonight,” the Witcher answered. “I’d like to actually get some sleep for once.” 

“But they’re so warm!!”

“No dogs, Dandelion.” 

“Augh!” The bard tossed back his head, a hand grasping his struck chest. “You are cruel to me, Geralt. Simply cruel!!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ayyyy. Just two more chapters and an epilogue to go, my friends!! I know this chapter's mostly more story telling and revelations, but I PROMISE it'll be worth it for the action next chapter!!! I am. SO excited to share it with y'all <3 Thanks for letting a Frankenthusiest like myself make such a ridiculous piece of fiction. Enjoy!!


	6. By the Gods as my Witness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They begin their journey south. All parties anxiously await the inevitable confrontation. When it finally arises, will they be able to end this bitter war peacefully? Or will the cry for vengeance be too much?

Victor’s progress was slow. It became clear that if they were to wait his full recovery, they would be here a  _ very _ long time. He was not feverish anymore, thank the gods, but he was weak. They’d have difficulty pushing south, but ideally, they could make it to a town where they’d at least be able to send word to Ernest. Then it would just be a matter of babysitting until someone came to collect him.

This was all assuming the eight foot man living in the frozen tundra didn’t stop them first.

Victor, now having two people around him who knew his big secret, had grown surprisingly and  _ blessedly _ quiet. His energy was being reserved for his small intervals of standing and walking. He was attempting to recover, which Geralt could appreciate—though given how fiercely the man had fought the last time returning was mentioned... he had a feeling Victor was keeping more to his chest than just what was within the pages of his journal.

Many times Victor’s dark eyes met Geralt’s. At first he’d been somewhat quick to drop the gaze. But as time went on and the Witcher’s deadline of departure drew closer, the young man stopped shying away. He was not afraid of the Witcher—that much was clear. How could he? He’d looked into eyes like these and devised a tool to destroy them.

He had no fears left. He only had his feverish, iron grasp on what he believed was his destiny.

So when he dressed for the weather and came quietly as they packed the dogsled, the Witcher did his best to keep an eye on the lad. Mira and Ravis had been kind enough to send them along with blankets and a small pouch of remedies—just in case. Geralt offered them a few coins for their time and attention.

With the dogs hitched up and the horses saddled, all that was left was to depart. 

Victor looked up to the two of them. “How shall we—”

Geralt nodded to the front of the dog sled. “You’re riding with me. We get back to the village, we’ll trade it back to its owner. I’ll take you with me on Roach from there, unless we can get a cart or something. For now, you sit. And you don’t fucking move until we stop.”

Victor nodded, but he made no notion of movement just yet. His eyes glanced up nervously to them, the tip of his tongue running over his bottom lip as he struggled to find the proper words.

“And... when he—”

“We’ll deal with it when it rises,” Geralt said. “And not a moment before. Now please. Don’t make me tie you to the dog sled.”

“It’s better to just do as he says,” Dandelion offered, holding the reigns of both his and Geralt’s horses. “He’s not very kind with his knots.”

The young man’s eyes flicked between the two of them. For a moment Geralt was sure he was going to push back, but instead he sighed, pulling the coat around him tighter. “I suppose I have no choice.”

“No, you always have a choice,” Geralt assured him, yellow eyes cool and unwavering. “The matter is that your choice is either in the sled by your own free will, or in the sled bound. Like it or not, we  _ are  _ leaving this place and we  _ will _ be returning you to your brother.” He pulled back the cover of the sled, gesturing to Victor to climb in. “Everything else... We’ll handle it as it comes.”

With a small, weak nod Victor began to climb into the sled as directed. He was shakey and seemed to collapse into it at the last moment, but he was in the fucking sled. For now, that was all Geralt needed from him.

He took his place at the handles of the sled, glancing over his shoulder at Dandelion. The bard had climbed atop his chestnutt with Roach’s lead in hand. Well bundled and packed, he gave his Witcher a nod.

And they took off into the cold.

With the wind at their back instead of their faces, the three of them managed to make good time to the village. The sun was only a few fingers from the horizon. The animals were perhaps a bit cold but showed no severe lack of energy.

Victor, however, was a different story. Geralt knew the young man was watching the horizon so carefully for any speck or figure. He knew it because he was doing the same thing. The monster had so far only revealed himself at night, but with his great enemy’s departure, the Witcher had expected some action or retaliation.

But there was nothing. Nothing came. Geralt took it in stride, but the unknown and potential danger in every direction simply wracked Victor. By the time they’d finally reached the village, the man was shaking, his eyes glazed over and out of focus. Geralt attempted to call his name, shake his shoulder—anything to get his attention—but nothing came and he still had a damn dog sled to deal with.

Dandelion took charge of Victor then, taking him inside the tavern and settling the man on his back in front of the fire.

“‘S he alright?” asked the bartender. He craned his head to see the sudden burst of chaos in his tavern.

“Not entirely,” Dandelion sighed, looking over Victor’s pale, shaking form. The man had closed his eyes, his face pulled into a permanent wince as his arms gripped himself so very tight—no doubt the only thing saving him from bruises was the thick layers of clothes. 

Turning to the bartender, Dandelion offered the best smile he could muster. “Would you happen to have some warm water and a cloth? The poor lad is absolutely frigid.”

With a nod, the bartender moved back in towards the kitchen. The other patrons, however, turned their full attention to the spectacle. Dandelion was somewhat unsurprised to see the same men from last time sitting in the exact same seats as they’d been in before as if time had barely moved forward since they’d left.

“Ah,” said the man in the corner. “Y’found yer lord then?”

“Indeed,” Dandelion sighed, shrugging off his coat to lay over Victor, whose shivering was already starting to lessen in the blessed heat of the fire. “He’s a bit worse for wear, but he is alive.” The bard looked over that terribly pale, pained face.

_ As much as he undoubtedly wishes he wasn’t _ , he thought,  _ He’s still alive. _

-

By the time the sun had set, Victor had fully stilled and settled into sleep in front of the fire. Geralt had gotten the horses housed for the night and returned the man his dog sled. Before long, the tavern was empty save for the three of them. The bartender had allowed them to stay in the hall just for the night, as moving Victor would no doubt be an enterprise. All they could do now was sit and watch him.

“If he’s gonna be like this the whole way down...”

Dandelion rested a gentle hand on Geralt’s arm, warm from the tea in his cup. “Once we get further south, I’m sure it’ll get easier. This cold isn’t helping his... surprisingly fragile constitution.”

The Witcher shook his head. His eyes watched the soft breathing of Victor rise and fall through the layers of clothes and blankets. “A man can rifle through corpses, dig up graves, and stitch up rotten limbs, and yet...”

“And yet,” Dandelion agreed.

They let him sleep for a while longer before finally waking him. Rest was important, but so was eating. He roused fairly easily and stayed close to the fire as he ate. Under all his blankets, he seemed so very small, swallowed in the thick fabric.

“I take it we did not get far,” He said, glancing up from his food occasionally to look across at the two men.

“As far as the village,” Geralt answered. “I gave your man his sled back.”

The young man’s head rose at that. His eyes flicked nervously between the white haired man and the decorated bard. “Oh! I—I’m afraid I had some things in—”

Without a word, the Witcher picked up a blanket and shook it out, letting the ruptured arm cannon clatter to the floor with a “THUNK.” Victor looked at it in soft, stunned silence.

“Seems you have a habit of making dangerous things,” Dandelion said, taking another sip of his tea. “At least this one’s useless now.”

The young lord set aside his plate, carefully picking up the dark weapon from the floor. He held it with such strange tenderness for what was entirely a tool for destruction. Dandelion’s nose wrinkled a bit as Victor’s face took on a look of what could only be compared to heartbreak.

“ _ Shit _ ,” he hissed, his grip on the broken thing tightening. “I must have packed it wrong...”

“You’ve made more than a few mistakes, your Lordship,” Geralt said. Yellow eyes were tightly fixed on the man. “Or shall we call you Frankenstein instead?”

As pale and small as he was, the second the word passed Geralt’s lips, a certain darkness came over Victor. The glimmer of that dark, mad rage came to his eyes. His hands gripped tight to the weapon in his hands.

“How do you—”

“We borrowed your journal,” Dandelion answered with a small smile. “Since it was entirely likely we weren’t going to get the full story from your mouth, we turned to the next best thing. I have some recommendations and comments on your writing style if you’d like them! But overall, it was most eye opening.”

The man was silent. His eyes fell to the floor as he set the broken weapon on his lap. “Then you know...”

“Know that you’re a fucking idiot, yes,” Geralt nodded. “For a man who so badly regretted his first mistake, you were rather quick to do it a second damn time.”

“Frankly,” Dandelion cut in before Victor could open his mouth to retaliate, “that’s not even my first upset. Well, I suppose my first is that you made the creature to begin with. But my  _ second _ is that you  _ abandoned  _ it! You essentially left a gigantic, monstrous toddler to wander the Continent!! If you’re going to put literal years into the effort to cross such ethical lines, you should at _ least _ have the decency to help the poor man!”

A snarl came to Victor’s face. “And that justifies his killing my brother?!”

The bard scoffed, a laugh in his voice. “I  _ certainly _ didn’t say that. But I am saying that you have  _ no _ moral high ground to stand on, your Lordship.”

“I know,” Victor bit. His knuckles went white as he gripped the broken arm cannon. “I know! Believe me, I’m more than aware of my mistakes. Every piece of suffering that’s risen from this has been my fault. My failure has caused all of this to happen, which is why I’m trying to fix things now!”

Geralt crossed his arms, hissing out an ugly laugh. “The fuck you are!” Victor turned incredulous eyes onto the Witcher, but Geralt wasn’t done. “You haven’t been trying to fix a goddamned thing for six years, including now. You’ve been trying to _ hide the fucking evidence _ . Because not only are you an idiot who doesn’t understand consequences, but you’re a coward as well who falls apart whenever things get hard. Except, of course, when you’re constructing your crimes against nature. But then, I suppose it’s a lot easier to stitch up corpses than admit to your family that you created a monster.”

With every word the young lord’s face twisted in anger. “Forgive me, master Witcher,” he scoffed. “Was I to open my doors to that... fiend?! Let him dwell among my family as if he wasn’t an aberration?!”

“An aberration  _ you _ created, yes,” Geralt nodded, his brutal face unchanging. “You brought him into this world. Take some fucking responsibility. At the very least, he’d have had some kind of fucking guidence instead of being thrown to the wolves by your carelessness.” He stood then, snatching the broken arm cannon from Victor’s lap and replacing it with his half-eaten food. “What’s the worst he could’ve done? Kill your brother?”

-

Victor was resistant to sleep after eating. He insisted on staying awake and adding to his journal by the light of the fire. He wore his spectacles as he wrote, wrapped in his blankets and work. He seemingly took no notice of the other movement in the room. The broken weapon was set by the hearth, letting the flames glint off of its metal, casting shimmering shadows across the dark tavern hall. 

Dandelion was moving about, setting up their bedrolls on the floor. Geralt still hadn’t moved from the seat he’d claimed. His eyes kept looking to the windows, watching for any sign of motion in the darkness. Every gust of wind brought the movement of bare trees and rising flurries of snow.

Not a pair of yellow eyes to be seen.

“Any sign of our gigantic friend?” Dandelion asked, keeping his voice quiet. Geralt shook his head, scanning the horizon one more time. “Mm. Well I’m sure he’s out there... I can’t imagine he’ll wait til we get all the way back south before he makes himself known.” He looked up to the Witcher. “I suppose the real question is what shall we do when he  _ does _ . Undoubtedly, our little Frankenstein will go charging at him the first chance he gets... At least now he’s down his special weapon.” 

“That won’t stop him from trying,” Geralt sighed.

Dandelion nodded, pensive as he regarded his friend’s grim face. He too looked out the windows, praying nothing made itself seen. “I truly hope we don’t have to kill him,” he said. 

Geralt looked to him, raising an eyebrow in amused confusion. “I thought you didn’t like child stranglers.”

“Of course I don’t,” Dandelion scoffed. “Don’t be daft. Yes, he’s done some gruesome things, certainly, but.” The poet paused as he looked just away from Geralt, gathering his words together in order to present them properly. “His grand request was for someone to love him. Out of everything, he just wanted another being to love him. I mean, he—Oh, what did he say?” He looked to the ceiling as he squared his shoulders and furrowed his brow, donning the heavy persona of the creature. “ ‘If any being felt emotions of benevolence towards me, I should return them an hundred and a hundred fold; for that one creature's sake, I would make peace with the whole kind!’” He found Geralt’s eyes for his review of the performance, delighted to see that small smirk of a smile. “Quite overdramatic, perhaps, but... like father like son.”

Geralt glanced towards the fire where Victor was so absorbed, he couldn’t even hear Dandelion reciting the words from the very book in his hands. “Certainly seems so.”

“My point being,” Dandelion went on. He didn’t continue talking until he had Geralt’s eyes and full attention back on him. The upturned quirk of a smile playing at his lips was all too knowing. “Big scary man with yellow eyes that has spent much of his life being hated and alone?” The bard performatively placed his chin in his hand, his face displaying contemplation. “My, who does that remind me of?”

Geralt just scoffed. “I’m not going to —”

“Yes, yes, I know.” The bard rolled his eyes, waving the Witcher’s words off before they could finish coming out of his mouth. “We’ll do what we must, of course. I’m simply saying. I sympathize with our poor creature.”

Geralt huffed, but said nothing. Of course, the thoughts of their similarities had crossed his own mind. He wondered perhaps too much what would this situation be if Victor had not included a Witcher in his creation. Yes, the man was huge and ominus to look upon, but would he have been so hated and mistreated to the point of murder and revenge if his eyes were a plain brown or blue? It was the eyes of a Witcher that set him apart fully as something ‘other’ and therefore condemned him to being abhorred by those who saw him. If Victor had used any other eyes... Of course, it was hopeless to think this way. The damage was already done. Now the creature wanted love to soothe him and his lonely heart or else revenge for being made as he was.

That was a thought that Geralt was silently more than a bit familiar with.

Of course... he’d also silently managed to attain his own solution to that painful ultimatum. That solution opened his mouth and spoke the exactly the same ringing conclusion Geralt had reached.

“After all, you’ve got me. He hasn’t anyone.” 

Before the Witcher could respond, another question came to Dandelion’s face and the man was off again. “Geralt. If...  _ If _ it comes to it, which... heavens forbid it does, but...” Those blue eyes met yellow as the question finally left him. “Do you think you’ll be able to kill him...? I mean, Victor had to make that arm cannon to kill the woman...”

Geralt was quiet for a moment. It was clear the monster was stronger than an average creature. He was resilient to the cold and other dangers. Victor had said something about the creature being made from a mixture of magic AND science. Which blade would he need? Perhaps both. It was hard to say.

“...Hopefully we won’t have to find out,” came his answer.

“Oh.” Dandelion’s nose scrunched up in soft disappointment. “That’s a very nice way of saying you have no idea.”

“I don’t know what to tell you,” Geralt shrugged. “I can’t say I’ve ever gone against a created man before. But if it should come to it... I’ll do everything I can.”

The bard smiled up at the Witcher, blue eyes kind, and certain. “I know you will.” No matter what happened, Geralt would do his best. It wasn’t ideal to kill things that could think, as well as things that were otherwise not malicious. It seemed even the creature didn’t want to see any death come from this.

The only one who  _ did _ was the young lord, bespectacled, scratching away into his journal with his shattered weapon by his side. Under his blankets he was thin and frail, but his dark, unrelenting eyes stared down furiously at the page before him.

“One way or another,” Geralt said, leaning in closer to the bard. “This whole thing is going to come to a head. And that little shit’s gonna be his own agent of chaos, I’m fucking sure of it.”

Dandelion nodded, looking over the young man. “Indeed...” They could tell him what they thought of his plan and his actions—as they already had—but nothing seemed to rattle the rage from his shoulders. He was fully convicted of his destructive destiny. 

“I suppose all that’s left to do is wait...”

Geralt nodded. “Unfortunately so.”

“Then,” the bard began, his eyes turning to land on the bar. “Shall we at least wait with something more interesting to drink?” Without waiting for a response, he began to walk over, peering over the edge to get a look at what was kept below. 

Geralt just grinned, yellow eyes watching the bard’s antics. “Help yourself. I try not to drink when I know there’s a monster watching me.” 

Dandelion scoffed. “Bull _ shit _ .” He reached down for a bottle of ale, setting it on the bar with a thud before returning his hand to find glasses. “If anything, you—”

His words were cut off by a series of loud and sudden noises whose origins he missed. By the time He’d gotten himself upright, Geralt was reaching for one of his swords, yelling, “ **_Victor_ ** !”

The young man had taken off out of the tavern, boldly running into the night. Dandelion dropped everything, snatched up his coat and ran after all of them. With sword in hand, the Witcher chased the young man into the night. He would not get far in this cold.

But in his gut was a feeling saying they would not go very far at all. This was it. This was the breaking point they’d been waiting for. The moment had finally arrived. After this, there would be an ending.

The question was simply what ending had they earned.

-

Victor ran blindly into the woods, ignoring the wind whipping and cutting through him. His body was trembling again with such effort, but he ran all the same with his teeth grit tight, his eyes only on the dark blur before him. He pushed past leafless tree after leafless tree until finally he came to a stop. A circle of bare trees surrounded an open patch of snow covered ground, immaculate and white as the winds cut through exposed branches. Behind him he could hear the approaching footsteps and breathing of the Witcher and the bard.

But before him stood his great enemy.

Geralt and Dandelion could truly see him now. Up close, the creature was somehow taller than either had anticipated. He was easily two feet taller than Geralt and absolutely towered over Victor. Geralt could see the scars on the man, well pronounced all around his neck and wrists. No doubt there was more covered by the loose cloth and furs he wore as clothes. He was a rather gaunt being, but the way his skin clung to his body screamed to Geralt of incredible strength just beneath the surface. This was not a creature to underestimate. His long, dark hair blew in the wind as Coen’s yellow eyes looked down at all of them.

“My blessed creator,” he spoke, his eyes coming to land on Victor. His voice was low, cutting through the wind like a blade.

“Monster!!” The young lord spat the word with rage. In mere seconds he’d raised the arm cannon, pointing it to the monster’s chest. “You dare to show your face!!

“Put that fucking thing down,” Geralt seethed, snatching the device from the man’s hands and throwing it to the ground behind him. Victor turned on the Witcher with all his dark rage, but simply could not compete with the glare of two sets of yellow eyes. He looked back to the monster before them.

“There he is, Witcher,” Victor snarled, his body shaking even as he spoke with such rage. “There’s your monster!”

“No sir,” the creature said, stepping forward. “I am  _ yours _ . As I always have been.”

Victor scrambled to move back, but the two men behind him refused to budge. Geralt grasped him by the back of his coat, holding him still.

“Very lovely to meet you properly, sir,” Dandelion said, happy to take the lead by offering a respectful bow. “We’ve heard very much about you—and your lady love. Truly atrocious. My deepest sympathies.”

The creature looked to the bard, regarding the man carefully. He beheld all of them, his face starting to dawn with soft confusion. “Perhaps it is better she did not live,” he said after a moment. “Better for her life to have been spared from the brutal torments of this world.”

“Maybe so,” Geralt agreed. “But fucked up all the same.”

The monster looked at him, their yellow cat-like eyes finding each other in the dark. “And who are you,” he asked, “that has eyes like mine?”

“A Witcher, '' Geralt answered, “same as the man whose eyes you were given. A man who kills monsters for coin.”

The answer gave the man pause, silently watching Geralt, looking over his form and lingering on the sword in his hand. “Are you going to kill me?” 

“Not if I can help it.”

Victor turned to Geralt, no shortage of desperation in his voice. “I will pay you, Witcher,” he hissed. “Please! Whatever you require.” Geralt gave him another firm tug back, pulling another startled noise from the lord’s lips. The lad was absolutely trembling beneath his clothes.

“I’m not killing your creature so you can hide your fuck ups under a damn rug,  _ your lordship _ ,” Geralt snapped. “Time to face your problems like a man for once in your miserable life.”

“Tell me sir,” Dandelion cut in, taking a small step forward towards the creature. “Do you have a name?”

The giant shook his head. “I was given none.” 

“But that doesn’t mean you can’t have one,” the bard answered. “Surely, after six years you’ve come up with  _ some _ moniker to identify yourself...”

A strangely soft expression came to the creature’s face. Dandelion’s words seemed to have struck ground in some sensitive part of the creature’s spirit. Truly, he hadn’t even thought to name himself. He shook his head at Dandelion, unable to answer with his words.

“You’ve been wronged,” Geralt said. “And you’ve  _ done _ wrong. That much is clear. And now it has to end.” He glanced at Victor in his hand, huffing rage filled breaths as he refused to look from the creature. “I don’t suppose there’s a way to convince both of you to give up this fight and walk away.”

“Never,” Victor spat, jerking in Geralt’s grip. “If I must to the ends of the world—”

“Oh shut up,” the Witcher bit. He let go, letting Victor stumble back as he did so.

The young man found his way to his feet, his hands clenched into tight fists. “I will not let the enemy of my soul walk free in this world! Not with the blood of my family on his hands. He is a killer! He  _ will _ do so again!!”

The monster snarled, suddenly charging forward a few steps. Geralt pushed his way between the two of them, his sword still held at his side.

“You think me a mad dog?!” The creature snapped. “An indiscriminate slaughterer of innocents! No sir, for I do not meddle in affairs that are not my own. I do not plunge my hands into wells of chaos only to scoff at what I find!! Yes, I have killed—and took no delight in doing so. Do I not regret their deaths?! Do their cries not bring me sorrow?! Do not forget who it was that  _ made _ me this way!!!  _ YOU _ drove me to this mad cliff and for so long I dreamed only to grasp you in my arms and throw both of us from it!!” He pointed a long finger to Victor’s chest. “You created me a perfect mate!!  _ She _ was most innocent of all and you plotted to destroy her before you even gave her breath!!”

Victor lunged forward, only restrained by the Witcher’s grip. “And I would do it again, fiend!!”

With his free hand, Geralt landed a restrained blow to the Lord’s stomach—just enough to keep him quiet for a moment longer.

“We are truly sorry, sir,” Dandelion cut in yet again. “You have lived a life that has known only pain and hardship... But it doesn’t have to be your future as well! I think you more than deserve to cut this tie.” 

The giant raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

“Vengeance is a bitter goal,” The bard went on, knowing a receptive audience when he saw one. “You wish for retribution for all the things this... shitstain of a man has done to you. Unfortunately, it’s rather clear he has no regrets no matter what you do to him! Your last option would be to kill him, but Victor’s death will bring you no peace. And I think, in your heart, you already know that.”

Yellow eyes so like Geralt’s yet so different looked from Dandelion to Victor who was still struggling to fully stand. The creature was the only one who did not shiver as the wind blew through the clearing, his face dark and calm. Victor’s wild eyes found his, finally. Dark rings and wild rage were all he could find in his trembling enemy.

“You are right,” he said finally, looking back to Dandelion. “But I do not think there will be peace for me anywhere in this world.”

“Perhaps not,” Geralt said, drawing the giant’s attention. “No matter what, there will be no easy life for you. Won’t be helped by you having the eyes of a group well despised by most. But I can promise you this world isn’t all torment either. If you carve out a space for yourself, far from this one and his fuckin macinations... You could have a life of your own. It won’t be perfect, but it’ll be better than throwing it away for him.”

“No,” Victor murmured, his weak voice lost into the wind.

The monster looked the three of them over, lingering on their forms and faces. His eyes narrowed softly, assessing every word and gesture. They were being weighed, Geralt knew. They would know soon enough if the creature found them to be trustworthy or their words to be true. To abandon the revenge he’d come so far for was a high cost. Could a wider world exist for such a being? Geralt could only hope.

Yellow eyes fell again to Victor, the young man thrown completely to his own feral nature. Victor stared back with only rage and anger. In the Creature’s eyes, the men could only see pitty.

“I will go,” he said finally. Dandelion could’ve cheered to the high heavens, but managed to restrain himself. Geralt just watched as the man went on. “I’ll do as you say, and I will leave this agony behind. Forever.”

Shifting the sword to his other hand, Geralt held his right out to the creature. “Give me your word, then. A promise made must be honored.”

The giant nodded. He took the offered hand, eclipsing it almost entirely in his own. “I swear to you sir, I will leave. I will cut the ties of my vengeance and find peace for myself elsewhere.” Yellow eyes met each other in the dark, both calm and clear as the deal was done. Geralt gave their joined hands a firm shake and dared to release the breath he’d been holding.

_ For once,  _ he thought,  _ no need for bloodshed _ .

He’d been so close to being correct...

The steel sword was snatched from his hand. By the time he’d turned to grab Victor, the man had already jumped forward with a howling yell and slashed the blade across the monster’s chest. The creature stumbled back with a cry, but Again Victor stepped forward, swinging and screaming and crying out as loud as he could to the highest heavens, “ _ Devil!!! Demon!!! Abomination!! You are my curse! And by the gods, I WILL END YOU!! _ ” With his meager strength, he sunk the blade into the monster’s side. 

It did not sink deep as Geralt grabbed the lord and pulled him back, shaking the sword from the man’s gasp and sending it clattering to the ground. “You  _ fucking idiot _ !!!” the Witcher snarled. The creature fell back against the trunk of a tree with a bellow of pain. His eyes were wide, his mouth hung open as he winced, grasping at the wound in his side. A dark blood leaked from his torso, now decorating the snow—and Victor’s hands. 

Geralt seethed at Victor, holding him with no mercy and just barely resisting the urge to beat the absolute shit out him. “What are you _ thinking _ ?!”

“I did what I had to do,” the young man hissed, but already his body was draining of its energy. In Geralt’s hand, he began to collapse, his knees buckling beneath him. The Witcher took a knee with him, careful to steady the idiot.

“My damned creator,” the monster croaked from against the tree, his dark blood seeping from brilliant wounds. He stared at the shrinking lord, yellow eyes shining with such burning pity. “You great fool...”

“Be silent,” Victor hissed from the ground. “Die as you should—unknown and unloved!!”

The creature’s face twisted in pain as he leaned away from the tree. His eyes were ever calm, never moving from the lord’s face. “Do you not see,” he said. “Your last act will be for nothing.”

Victor was silent, his face ghostly pale. His eyes began to widen as the words hit him.

Hissing in pain, the creature began to sit up despite the wounds in his flesh. He winced at the stab in his side, but even that would not keep him down. Even now, the skin of his torso was slowly beginning to mend. Geralt watched with eyes wide. There was certainly much more Witcher in this creation than he’d thought...

The creature’s yellow eyes held Victor’s dark, broken gaze. “You have made me too well.”

“No,” Victor breathed, tears starting to fall from his wild eyes. “ _ No _ .” He collapsed on the ground, his head hitting the snow. The truth of it hit him at once. Slowly his eyes began to lose focus as they stared up to the sky. He saw nothing but the dark void of space. He was so pale, but his shivering had finally stopped, it seemed. His body was giving up the fight.

“Geralt,” Dandelion said. “We need to get him inside, he—”

“There’s no time.” The Witcher watched Victor’s rage fade out and replace itself with a wholly different emotion: remorse.

“I failed,” he breathed, his voice barely audible. His eyes had lost focus, staring up at the night sky. Geralt listened to his heartbeat wind itself down, slowing with every shallow breath. Tears were rolling down this face, dropping limply onto the snow. “I failed you... Elizabeth...”

A cold wind blew through the clearing and carried off the young lord’s last breath. 

Dandelion breathed a choked sigh, putting a hand on Geralt’s shoulder. Without a word, Geralt covered it with his own. Victor’s pale body shivered no more, his broken destiny left on his lips.

“He was the author of his own destruction,” Dandelion said. He removed his hat from his hand and held it to his chest. “To his bitter end.”

A bitter sound rang out in the clearing, like some tortured, howling bear. The two men looked up to see the creature drawing closer to the corpse, his face contorted in vivid agony as bitter tears fell down his face. Victor looked so comically small in the creature’s great shadow, but the giant had only the most tender of gestures for him. Bitter tears fell from those yellow eyes. One hand held the wound in his side, the other trembling as it hovered above the young lord

“Oh  _ cursed _ creator!!!” he cried. “You would rather drive yourself to death... than see me live apart from your suffering?!!” His hands reached out and so gently cupped the man’s face—for a moment Geralt thought he might crush him, but the creature just rested his forehead against Victor’s already cold skin. 

“You take the meaning of it all with you,” he sobbed. “What was the reason?! Why did you give me this life?! Was I made to only suffer at your hands?! ...What then, now that your hands will never know life?” His hands gently slipped away, leaving a small streak of that dark blood on Victor’s cheek. Carefully he set Victor’s head rest on the snow, letting it lull to one side. He reached up to wipe bitter tears from his face but mostly succeeded in wiping his own blood beneath his eye. He was too lost in his grief to notice or care.

Dandelion and Geralt watched this bitter funeral in silence. Neither wanted to interrupt the mourning of such a broken creature... But then it turned to them, his yellow eyes seeking Geralt’s own. 

“You say you kill creatures,” he said. “I have no coin to give you... but sir, I beg you... End this hopeless soul. Let me find true rest. Let me forever leave behind this pain and agony.” His hand reached for the sword on the ground, holding it out to the Witcher. Geralt silently took it from him, yellow eyes watching him so carefully.

“...Geralt,” Dandelion said. “Geralt, no! You can’t!”

Geralt rose to his feet, sword in hand. He looked down on the pittiful, bleeding creature. He was a twisted picture of sorrow, slashed and broken, hopeless and ragged. He’d been something to see on that rise in the ice all those nights ago—for years haunting the Formot family like their own angel of death. And now here he was, begging a Witcher to kill him.

“Geralt!!” Dandelion moved himself forward, pushing himself into Geralt’s line of sight. “Stop this at once! You are  _ not _ going to kill this man!! You can’t  _ actually _ be considering this!!”

The creature’s face twisted in such sorrow, those yellow eyes crying with pain. “Please. I beg you sir... You will be doing me a great kindness.”

“And what of your promise?!” the bard sputtered. “The one you  _ just  _ made to us?! To cut the ties of your vengeance and find peace?!” He pointed a finger to Victor’s body. “There’s your vengeance, sir!! Your ties have been cut for you!!” The creature looked down at the bard's words, fresh tears rolling down his pale face. “Brutally so, yes, but... cut nonetheless.” Dandelion got down on his knees, reaching out and gently taking the creature’s hand in his. Tearful yellow eyes met his, fracturing under the soft insistence of the Bard’s gaze. “Now comes the second half of your promise. To find  _ peace. _ ”

“Peace,” he muttered, his tearful eyes again falling to Victor’s corpse. “...I wouldn’t even know where to find such a thing.”

“But I might,” Geralt said. Both bard and creature looked up at him as he wiped the blood from his sword and placed it back into its sheath.

“You have the eyes of a Witcher... But do you know how to use them?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AHHHHHHH! Yes I'm so PUMPED to share this chapter with you!!!!!!! All the action! All the drama!! We've got one more regular chapter and an epilogue after, so stay tuned!
> 
> And thank you everyone for you comments and sweet support. It really means a lot to me <3 I didn't know if anyone was going to care about this weird, strange fic and it really means a lot to hear people say they do!
> 
> Thank you so much. <3


	7. A Proper Ending (Or the Birth of Man)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After all the chaos, now begins the journey home. This strange tale has come to an end. All it needs is some finishing touches to truly be complete...

Victor’s body was wrapped and bound in a white blanket. It would be a hell of a trip back, carrying a body with them, but the two of them managed to buy a small cart to make the transporting easier. The young lord was dead, but it was still better to have proof as such—respectable proof that could be buried. 

“I’m sure Ernest will be thrilled to bury another member of his family,” Dandelion sighed.

Geralt tightened the strap of the harness, securing Dandelion’s chesnutt to the cart. “I’m sure he won’t be surprised either.”

“Still,” the bard sighed. “It’s rather tragic. Now he’s truly alone in that old, dark house; the last of his family... Hopefully he can bring some life back into that place.”

Geralt scoffed. “He’ll have his work cut out for him, that’s for damn sure.”

“Oh—” Dandelion’s hand swatted Geralt’s arm, his other pointing back towards the village. “Here he comes!”

Geralt looked up from his task to see. The creature was walking towards them, now dressed in real clothes they’d managed to procure (what would have been a long tunic on a normal man was a decently adequate shirt for him), his skin perfectly cleaned of blood. His scars were wrapped, Geralt noticed, hidden under fabric and furs. His wild hair was hastily pulled back with a small leather thong Geralt had given him, showing the world his face. It was astounding how such small details made him look less of a monster and more of a man—a strange man, to be certain, but a man nonetheless! Villagers gave the giant looks and skirted around him. He himself appeared more than a bit uncomfortable walking in plain view of everyone with the sun in the sky, but he walked calmly towards the two, a faint smile at his thin lips as Dandelion waved to him.

“You ready to go?” Geralt asked.

“I am,” the creature nodded. “Thank you, both of you, for your kindness.”

“Of course,” Dandelion said. “It’s good to see you in something that doesn’t look like a damn bed sheet. You clean up rather well! Though perhaps we’ll have to see about getting you something fitted _for_ you when we reach a bigger city.”

“You won’t need much at Kaer Morhen,” Geralt promised. “They’ll be able to supply you with whatever things you might need.”

“ _But_ ,” Dandelion cut in. “We _do_ need to figure out something _very_ important for you! _You_ , sir—” he poked a finger to the creature’s chest “—need a name.”

“We can pick one while we’re on the road,” Geralt said, climbing on top of Roach. “I’d like to reach the next town before sunset.”

He looked to the creature, who was moving so slowly and carefully as he settled himself in the cart. Geralt had assumed it was due to being next to the white bundle of his maker—which certainly garnered a sorrowful look from the man—but he gave the same overly gentle treatment near Dandelion’s lute case and saddle. Even the way he sat—taking up such little room with his hands folded and tucked into his lap.

 _He’s afraid to break things_ , Geralt realized. The pendulum of the man’s life had swung so far from seeking destruction that now he didn’t know how to hold himself to not cause more. Only time inside the world of men would erode that fear, Geralt knew.

“We’ll part with you at the Buina Pass,” he said. “I’ll send you along with a letter for Vesemir, as well as some instructions for you on how to get to the damn place. They’ll take care of you, I promise.”

The giant man nodded, the gesture so small and controlled. “Thank you... I truly can’t thank you enough.”

Geralt just grunted. “It won’t be nice. People will still hate you. They’ll definitely still fear you, but at least you’ll get paid for it.”

The giant nodded, but his attention was seemingly somewhere else for the moment. When he met Geralt’s eyes, his brow had furrowed slightly in determination. “I hate to impose on your kindness anymore than I have, but... Could I ask you both for another favor?”

“Depends,” the Witcher answered.

“You’re returning to the Formot estate.” Geralt nodded. “While you’re there... If you could... place some flowers on the graves of those I killed.” The request caught Dandelion somewhat by surprise, but Geralt made no strong reaction. “I know I will not be forgiven... But I do wish to honor their memories.”

“Of course we will,” Dandelion said before Geralt could even open his mouth.

The giant gave him a very small, bitter smile. “Thank you.” 

“Of course,” Dandelion said. He took the reins of the cart, still looking over his shoulder to the creature. “I’m sure Witcher school will take up most of your upcoming time for the next while, and while those monster killing gentlemen are very knowledgeable in all they do, I doubt any of them will be quick to help you with closure on your previous life.” His eyes flicked up to Geralt’s, a thin line of ice in those precious blues. “We will _gladly_ help you with this very _simple_ and _kind_ favor.”

Geralt said nothing, just letting a small smile play at the corner of his mouth.

Dandelion went on, unbothered. “And do not worry about repaying us! I’m already turning this grand adventure into my next song and I have a feeling it will be a _very_ good one. And once you begin your... Witchering, I can write you more songs to celebrate your victories. But!! to do so, we need to give you a _name_!! Have you... any ideas?”

The giant shook his head, an apology in his eyes.

But Dandelion just smiled warmly. “Then I suppose we’ll just have to continue to brainstorm! You’ll know the right one when you hear it.”

-

“If you pick one, he’ll stop,” Geralt said.

The giant man chuckled, holding his tankard in both hands. “I might have to. Though it _is_ somewhat amusing to watch him get frustrated.”

“Mm. Agreed.”

After a few days of traveling south and Dandelion’s inability to come up with a name to satisfy their new travel companion, the bard had gone a bit mad. The two yellow-eyed men were settled in the back corner of a fairly bustling tavern and while Dandelion had taken off to gather inspiration from the other patrons, as well as play a few songs and help pay their way south. Every so often, he would pause his conversation and turn to his companions, shout out a name, and await the giant's thoughts on it. He had yet to succeed.

“It’s very kind of him to try,” the man said, watching Dandelion flit about. Every time he struck up a new conversation, a cold feeling in his gut twisted, knowing everyone’s attention would inevitably turn back to him. “But when their eyes all turn on me... I wish I could disappear.”

Geralt nodded with a small smile before taking a sip of his ale, understanding completely. Dandelion had always been one for the spotlight, basking in applause and attention. He couldn’t always comprehend those who weren’t.

“He’s not wrong though,” the Witcher mused. “You will need a name.”

The giant nodded, his eyes looking deep into his cup. “I always thought I’d be given one,” he said. “Or earn it, somehow... That I’d know the right thing when I better came to understand myself... But I do not know myself.” He looked to the Witcher, yellow eyes seeking their likeness in the other. “I am already six years of age... and I do not know who I am.”

“You’re already well ahead of most six years olds, I can promise you that,” the Witcher chuckled, even getting a small laugh from the man. Good. It was about time some joy crossed his face. “What _do_ you know of yourself then?” 

This gave the man pause. He was quiet, thinking over such a question very carefully. Geralt could practically see the wheels of his mind turning, pondering, gathering information to form his next careful words.

“That I came from death,” he said finally. “But that I seek... something more. To be a part of something. To have a place among it all; Humanity. Life. People.” He paused as he looked over the crowd of the tavern, his yellow eyes watching them all so carefully. Plenty of other patrons would turn and steal looks at what they saw to be two Witchers sharing a table. None of them looked particularly pleased at the idea but none of them came over to say anything about it either.

“But they also terrify me,” he continued. “At any given moment they could turn on me and despise me. And I would be alone again...”

Geralt nodded. “That has happened to me many times. And it will happen to you, I guarantee it.” He looked to the man, yellow eyes meeting yellow. “You’re a Witcher now. It’s part of the job. As is your strength.” As if one cue, the giant’s hands froze around the tankard. Geralt grunted his acknowledgement. “I see you holding things like they’re glass. It’s good to show some restraint, of course. But you can’t be afraid of yourself. That’ll get you killed.” 

The giant dropped his head with a bitter nod. He looked into this glass and not at all at the man next to him. “I know,” he muttered. “I _know_ it. But I can’t help from feeling like a wild bear, crashing about through this world. The people certainly _look_ at me like I am.”

“That’s how people are,” Geralt said. “They’re never going to see you as a normal man, even if you weren’t eight feet tall. People don’t like Witchers. They’ll only be more suspicious if you’re tip-toeing around them.”

The man lifted his head, his brow furrowed. “Do you... like this life you have?” Geralt blinked, the question catching him somewhat off guard. “You’re so quick to remind me of how I’ll be hated—presumably because you and those like us are too.” Geralt could only nod. “And yet you do it anyway?”

“I do,” the Witcher nodded, his eyes glancing over the crowd to where Dandelion has gone now. His eyes landed on him just as the bard turned back to face them. 

“Emiel?!!” 

The giant winced.

“Damn!!” Again, he turned back to the crowd, certain of his task.

Geralt just laughed, grinning as he took another sip. His eyes followed Dandelion as the sweet man bobbed over to yet another table, bringing with him smiles and songs and laughter. 

“I see,” the giant mused, a small smile pulled across his face. “You are hated by many, but you are not alone.” Something about his smile was saying something, like he knew some lovely secret. Geralt just furrowed his brow in a silent question. “He’s not afraid of you.” 

The Witcher huffed a laugh. “No, he’s not.” 

“And he always comes back to you, even when you part?” 

Geralt nodded. “We like to travel together.”

This time the giant chuckled. His eyes glanced across to Dandelion, who had taken a knee, singing some sweet, crooning melody to some blushing maiden. 

“I think I would like that,” the giant said, his heart in his eyes. “To be known by someone so kind and unafraid. You’re very lucky to have him.” 

The Witcher nodded, looking to the softness in the man’s face. “I am...” 

They watched in silence as the small table applauded the bard—a few of the patrons offering the man coins. He bowed, thanking them profusely. He was so very charming in his element; absolutely captivating to watch. He looked back to Geralt for a moment with a brilliant smile and a playful wink. Geralt just smiled back as Dandelion had already turned to the next table. His eyes turned back to the giant sitting next to him, who was similarly struck by the bard.

“Adam,” Geralt said. 

The man looked at him.

“It means man.”

The giant paused, considering again in his slow, quiet way. “Adam,” he muttered, testing the name on his lips. A small smile came to his face. “Adam,” he said again. He gave a nod. “Adam.” 

Dandelion turned to them again. He was far across the tavern now, needing to cup his hands around his mouth. “Jorbard?!!”

Geralt rolled his eyes, waving the name away before the man could. “Stop fucking shouting. Come over here!”

The bard politely excused himself with a quick flourished bow and made his way across the room to the table. He looked to the giant with eager eyes. “Anything yet?”

“Adam,” the man said. His eyes were bright and eager with the word, awaiting the bard’s review.

Dandelion blinked. “Adam, eh?” He rested his chin in his hand, tilting his head back as he thoughtfully considered. “Adam... A good strong feel to it. Not unnecessarily grand, but quite firm. Sturdy. Declarative. _Adam_.” A smile came to his face. “Yes, I think that will do you quite well!!”

Adam smiled, his face split with delight. He had a name. He had a destination, friends, clothes, and now, a name.

Dandelion beamed, matching the giant’s eager face. “Brilliant. Halfway there then! Now you just need a family name!” And Adam’s face promptly fell. Dandelion quickly raised a hand in reassurance. “No, no, don’t worry, sir. In fact... I think I have just the right one in mind for you.”

-

“Oh please,” Dandelion scoffed. “You have to admit, it has a bit of a ring to it.” 

“Adam Frankenstein? Really?” The Witcher chuckled. “It’s a morbid fucking name. But I suppose for a man made of corpses—”

“He’ll do _quite_ well as a Witcher, I’m sure.”

The Formot estate was in sight now. It was slightly busier than the last time they’d seen this place. Someone was tending the garden out front. Multiple people could be seen passing by the various windows inside. It seems Dandelion had been right: Ernest was the one to bring life back to this giant, empty place.

They pulled the cart up to the door and mere moments later, the lord in question appeared at the front door, moving briskly toward them with a mildly panicked urgency

“You’re back,” he said, a frantically hopeful tone in his voice. “Did you find—”

Without a word, Geralt hopped down from Roach and lifted the white wrapped body from the cart.

Ernest froze where he stood. With such bitter speed, tears appeared in his eyes, swiftly rolling down his face in mere seconds. “ _Oh Victor_ ,” he breathed, his voice choked as he looked upon the deceased form of his brother. His eyes flicked between the two men. “How... how did he...”

“Exposure,” Geralt said. “He traveled far north to the mountains. Ran himself ragged. Died in the cold.”

A small sigh left Ernest—one they could swear sounded of relief. He waved his hand to a nearby servant and gave orders to see the body tended to and properly buried in the family plot. Geralt carefully handed the body off as Dandelion hopped down from the cart.

“Our greatest sympathies, sir,” the bard said. “We brought him back as quickly as we could manage.”

Ernest nodded, doing his best to suppress the tears and bring himself back into control. “Thank you,” he said. “Please, come inside. I’ll see to your payment.”

The two followed, of course. Gone were the wreaths and mirror coverings. Light, it seemed, had finally found its way into the dark halls. Even with Victor’s grim tale in their heads, all they could of this place was a home. It was perhaps lacking true residents, as most of the people they passed were servants, but it was a start.

Ernest pulled them into the same office from before—this time with a few new features, Geralt noted. The new Lord Formot was eager to take his place, it seemed; eager to put the darkness behind him. After briefly rummaging through a drawer in the desk, he produced a decent sized purse that he placed firmly into Geralt’s hand with a nod.

“Thank you, your Lordship,” Geralt said.

“Thank _you_ , sir Witcher... I’ll confess, I had a feeling you wouldn’t find Victor alive. But I had hoped...” He paused for a moment, looking to the desk as he gathered himself. With as much firmness as he could manage, he leaned forward, looking right to Geralt’s eyes. “But tell me. I _must_ know. Was there any sign of the creature?”

Geralt met Ernest’s gaze. This was not a broken man as Victor had been. This was a man putting his world back to rights, fixing what he could of the mess he had been left with. He had no clue of the monster Victor had unleashed upon his own family, or the monster that Victor truly was.

And he didn’t need one either.

Geralt shook his head. “No creature, your Lordship. Just a lost young man.”

Ernest waited for more for a moment. Perhaps he’d been hoping, ready to pin the blame for years of sorrow on a clear and brilliant villain—or else a mindless beast prone to eager slaughter. But instead he had the body of his brother, who’d taken all answers to his grave.

“Very well then,” the lord said, with a firm nod. He straightened, folding his hands behind his back. “Thank you, gentleman. Truly. Thank you for bringing my brother back home.”

Geralt nodded while Dandelion offered the lord a small, respectful bow. 

“Frankly sir,” The bard responded before Geralt could walk away, “we’re just happy to see this tale come to its proper end. Ah, but... if you don’t mind, I have a bit of a small request.” The lord cocked his head slightly, but nodded for Dandelion to go on. “A very sweet gentleman on our travels asked us to place some flowers on the graves of your family. Would that be alright? I wouldn’t want to impose, but. I’m not one to break a promise if I can help it.”

Ernest blinked, the request a soft surprise that seemed to hit directly at his heart despite his best efforts to keep a calm and collected face. He took a breath that was a bit too deep to be considered either calm OR collected, but. Nodded to the bard.

“If you’d like. Ah, that’s... very kind of you. And of him. Here, I can show you the way.”

It was not a long trek. Once Dandelion had retrieved the flowers from the cart, he and Geralt followed the young Lord, leading out of the house and a ways past the nearby treeline. In a large, shaded square of well kept grounds was the Formot family plot fenced in by a dark iron fence. Many grey stones stood before them with names that went fairly far back. Dandelion made his way around the most recent stones, one by one, respectfully placing beautiful red roses at the names of each of them—the mother, the son, the servant, the bride, the father. Geralt watched from the edge with Ernest silently standing next to him. The lord was doing a very poor job at not crying, but remarkably well at making no noise while doing so.

When it was all done, the bard handed the last one to Ernest. “For Victor’s, once it’s done. I know you’re rather sick of mourning, but—”

“No,” Ernest said, taking the flower in his hands. “Thank you. It... It’s not been an easy time, but...” There didn’t seem to be a conclusion to that sentence, as all Ernest did was stare at the ground and the flower in his hands until he realized he was doing it. He looked back up to Dandelion with renewed effort. “Thank you, sir. And to your kind friend. If you see him again, please do pass on my gratitude.”

“I will,” the bard said with a bow and a smile. “I’m sure he’ll appreciate that very much.”

-

“Perhaps it _was_ the young man’s destiny,” Dandelion said as he twisted the tuning pins of his lute. Geralt tossed another log onto the fire, watching the sparks fly up into the sky as he listened to Dandelion’s voice. “Perhaps it was always to be this way—for Adam to become a Witcher. I mean! What other future was there for him with those eyes?”

“Who can say,” the Witcher sighed, sitting back down. “It’s a bit of a fucked up roundabout for destiny to find a way to make more of us. An entire family for one Witcher? It’s hardly an even trade.”

“I didn’t say it was a _good_ thing. But.” The bard gave his lute a test strum. “At least those left could get some peace in the end; Adam, Ernest—even Victor, in his own tragic way.”

Geralt grunted, leaning against his saddle. “I don’t think that man would’ve ever settled for anything less than death.”

“Unfortunately, I think you’re quite right.” The bard quickly fingered a few chords, seeming to test the sound of them together before straightening up. “Here, tell me what you think of this then.”

“Composed the song already?”

“Partially,” Dandelion said with a grin. “Of course, I’ve had to change a few things for the safety of our new friend, but. I think I’ve done quite well. It’s a beautifully sad thing. I’m calling it ‘The Ballad of Frankenstein.’”

Geralt smiled across at his friend. “Of course you are. Let’s hear it then.”

In the quiet dark of the night, Dandelion sang a bitter tale of a man and a monster and the bitter tragedy that followed as suffering and heartbreak and loneliness turned the wheel of vengeance and destruction. It was truly dramatic, and had Geralt not lived through his portion of it, he would never have believed it to be more than the dramatic morality tale that it was.

He found himself surprisingly fond of the ending; of the man’s death, leaving the monster to mourn him. It was a bitter tale, one of pain and love and suffering, but it was the ending such broken hearts deserved.

Geralt closed his eyes and listened with a small smile as Dandelion’s beautiful voice filled the air, carrying into the night.

**The** **End**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's the end.
> 
> Thank you so much, friends!!! This was an absolute BLAST to write and work on and present to you. I hope you enjoyed it!! Thank you so much for coming along on their weird and wonderful ride. Please, leave a comment, tell me what you think! We've got a final epilogue and then it will be finished. I've been batting around the idea of a sequel?? We'll see. I haven't settled on anything yet.
> 
> But seriously, sincerely, from the bottom of my heart, thank you so very very much. I didn't think anyone would give a shit about this weird strange thing and it's so rad to see the love from you all. <3


	8. Epilogue: Life from Death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt and Dandelion visit their new friend at Kaer Morhen, just to see how he's adjusted to his new life. He's doing rather well, it seems! But they discover there are dark threads that still connect him to his past.

“It’s been a while since we’ve seen him,” the bard said with an excited grin plastered to his face. “I wonder if he’s grown!”

Geralt scoffed. “Like he needs anymore growing. He’s nearly twice as tall as Vesemir as it is.”

Dandelion couldn’t help a laugh as he pictured the giant that was Adam sparring against the short old man that was Vesemir. He could only imagine what Vesemir had thought when Adam had first shown up. Adam had had Geralt’s letter, yes. But what a strange introduction that must have been. To be charged with the education of a created giant...

“Your old master certainly had his work cut out for him!”

“I’d have gone back sooner to check on him, but...” He shrugged, leaving the statement unfinished. The life of a Witcher was a fairly busy one. They were both well aware of its complications. “Anyways, Vesemir’s letter made it sound like he was doing well,” Geralt offered as they turned the corner.

Dandelion followed close behind. “It’s hard to imagine a being like him  _ not _ doing well at being a fantastic monster hunter.”

The Witcher just chuckled. “It takes more than just size and strength to be a good Witcher. There’s a lot for him to learn.”

“Yes, but I dare say,” the Bard bit back. “He has a bit of an advantage on most newcomers to the profession!”

Geralt couldn’t help a smile. “Heh... That he certainly does.”

The trail was an incredibly difficult one. No doubt on his own Dandelion wouldn’t have even been able to  _ find _ the damn thing, but with Geralt’s guidance they managed to push through with some speed. Before long, they were standing on the grounds of the white-haired man’s childhood.

It was a great big place—the kind that was wildly impressive, but past the days of being called grand. It was made of stone that seemed to be crumbling in more than a few places. There was no fear of complete collapse, of course, simply a sense of the very long and well weathered history that was well seeped into the bones of this place. Dandelion was in awe, locked in a wonderful filled expression.

Geralt was just happy to be home.

It was not long at all before they were greeted by a familiar face.

“Ah, the white wolf and his herald,” Vesemir said, a weathered smile on his wrinkled face.

“Good to see you, you old dog,” Geralt said. The two men embraced, holding onto each other for a firm, sweet moment. It was always good to be back...

“I must say,” Vesemir said as he led them back towards the old building. “I think you’ve sent me the most interesting case I’ve ever had for a student.”

“He told you everything, then?”

The old Witcher laughed. “Tell me? Couldn’t get the lad to shut up once he’d started! Bit of a long winded poet, for some damn reason.” He held open the door for the two of them, ushering them inside the great stone halls of Geralt’s familiar home.

“But I take it he’s adjusting well to a new line of work?” Dandelion asked. “Strapping young lad like him...”

Vesemir grunted in affirmation. “He’s already half Witcher as it is. More than enough strength and sight. Just needs the knowledge and the skill—which he’s been working on  _ dutifully _ .” He turned to look at the two of them, shaking his head. “I’ve never had a student spend so much time with the damn books—prefers them to the swords even. He’s like a giant child, giddy every time he learns something new he can apply.”

“Well,” Dandelion interjected, “Technically speaking, he  _ is _ , what... seven years old now? His education has been rather limited up to this point. Although, he taught himself to read when he was only three! I’d imagine he’ll be quite the scholar for you!” 

The old man hummed, taking them down a hallway. “Fair enough. At the very least, it's nice to have someone around who  _ appreciates _ their education.”

“I appreciate it,” Geralt said, his face pulled into a smirk. “I just also know how full of shit you can be.”

They came to the doors of the library—one left cracked open. Geralt couldn’t help but notice where there stone had been especially chipped away at the top of the arch. It brought a small smirk to his lips, picturing its origins. This place was large, but it still didn’t quite cater to an eight-foot man.

They entered the library and were greeted with the distant sight of Adam, tucked in the far back. The hulking figure that he was was pleasantly curled up on the floor in a corner by the window. All around his feet were various books left open, which he appeared to be consulting, running a finger along the words with one hand and fastidiously writing notes on a page in his lap with the other.

Already he was far improved from when they’d first met the man. For the first time they had seen, he was wearing clothes that fit him properly, his scars and lines uncovered. His long, dark hair was carefully pulled back, allowing him to better read. His face was no longer so grim, heavy with unspoken horrors, but instead lit up with wide delight at the sight of others. He was neither the creature in the woods nor the awkward oaf, keeping sleeves and furs to cover his scars. He simply was. He was Adam.

He rose as quickly as he could, careful to step over the books as he tossed his arms wide. “My friends!!” 

Dandelion spread his arms and promptly wrapped them around the giant’s torso as soon as the embrace was offered. “Our beloved Frankenstein!” He was utterly engulfed by Adam’s strong arms, which gave him perhaps the firmest and tightest hug he’d ever received! “Oo! Careful there,” He squeaked. “Unlike the others here, I’m really quite breakable!” 

“Oh!!” Immediately the bard was released, Adam’s large hands holding him gently to assess the damage. “I’m so sorry, I—”

“No, no worries,” the bard said, waving away Adam’s words before giving his arm a playful punch. “To be wounded by affection by a friend is no wound at all!!” He nodded his head towards the pile of books Adam had just left. “I see you’ve settled in quite well.”

Adam’s face broke with a grin, those yellow eyes all glittering with delight. “I have. I truly have,” he nodded. He turned to his other visitor. “Geralt!”

“Adam.” 

The two embraced in much the same way, though Geralt was a little harder to make disappear in a hug. Adam did, however, lift the man off his feet for a moment, just for the novelty of it. The startled bark that left Geralt’s mouth was well worth it, accompanied by Adam’s own deep laugh.

“Glad to see you’re not shying away from your gifts,” the white-haired man chuckled as he stepped back from the giant.

Adam nodded, his smile unremovable. “Vesemir’s been helping me.”

“There were a few accidents with the southern tower,” the old man added, his voice rather firm. “But we managed to repair them. Our man here is good with handywork.” 

The giant chuckled. “And by that he mostly means I can reach higher than he can.”

“I won’t deny that,” Vesemir huffed. Geralt raised his eyebrows, waiting for the explanation. The old Witcher nodded to Adam. “Thanks to him we were able to find our copy of the Mother’s Grimoire. Gods only know how long it had been hiding on top of that fucking shelf.”

Geralt blinked, his face combination of surprise and delight. “Really? Shit,” He chuckled. “I think that book went missing when  _ I _ was a student.”

“Well!” Dandelion clapped his hands together in soft delight. “Glad to know our lad’s been making himself useful.” 

He certainly was. After his dark beginnings, the man had come into the light and utterly bloomed. There was far more to Adam than his pain, and Geralt could see the joy in his face was real and came from getting exactly what he’d wanted: To be a part of something greater than himself. To have a place.

It was a cold, crumbling, and drafty place that would lead to a brutal lifetime career, but it was a place.

Geralt nodded to him. “They get you any armor yet?”

Adam shook his head, an amused smile on his face. “Unfortunately, I am, in all likelihood, the largest Witcher student to ever be. Nothing in the armory fits me and the swords are too small for my hands.”

“He’s mostly been practicing with metal rods,” Vesemir nodded. “Longest ones we can find. When the time comes, we’ll get him what he needs.” He turned to Adam with that firm teacher look Geralt was all too familiar with. “For now, put your things away and we’ll get dinner started.”

“Yes sir!” And Adam was already off, scooping the books from the floor and piling them into the crook of his arm. Vesemir turned and left, leaving the three of them to their own devices for the moment.

“If you don’t mind,” Geralt said. “I’d like to see where they put you. I know the usual rooms are probably... A bit cramped for someone your size.”

“Oh they are,” the giant chuckled, leading the way out of the library and down the hall. “I stayed in one at first, but. It was clear the space was not meant for me. It was a bit of a gift when I broke the wall of the south tower. The ceiling was already high enough but I added some windows for light.” He turned into a doorway and began to climb up a twisting staircase. The ceiling in the stairway was low enough that Adam had to bend down, but it wasn’t nearly as bad as some of the low ceilings in the keep. “The space was mostly being used for storage. Vesemir said if I cleared it out, I could make it my room.” 

And what a room it was. They reached the top of the stairs and Geralt stepped into a place he’d never seen before. He’d only been to the south tower once or twice to try and find something for Vesemir, but still. It had a much warmer flare than anything Geralt had seen before in Kaer Morhen. The room was a large circle with two somewhat crude windows set into the wall. A  _ large _ , clearly handmade bed was placed under one window with a small table and a dresser on either side—rustic, basic pieces, made for practicality and far from luxury. Further along was a bookshelf, one whose contents was entirely composed of books from the library Adam was “borrowing.” Leaning against the wall next to it were three long metal rods, ready to be taken for practice at a given call. On the opposite side of the room was a large tapestry. It was hung best one could manage in a circular room, but it was lovely nonetheless—undoubtedly old and brilliantly colored. It was an old style map of the continent, but with old borders and strange illustrations of creatures and monsters across the land.

“Oh, this is fantastic!” Dandelion sang as he looked the thing over. “Absolutely beautiful weaving! Must’ve taken this poor weaver  _ ages _ ! And this was just in Vesemir’s storage?!” 

“Yes,” Adam said. He went straight to the bookshelf, arranging his newly acquired volumes with a smile. “I thought it was so beautiful... Vesemir couldn’t remember where he’d gotten it from—a gift from someone—but he did remember wondering where it had gone about a hundred fifty years back.”

Geralt huffed a laugh, his eyes happy to scan over the beautiful work of threads and colors. “Certain things start to slip after a few centuries. Or so I hear.”

Dandelion turned his attention to the room as a whole, delighted on behalf of their friend. “It’s really quite lovely! You really have carved out your own space, haven’t you?” 

The giant beamed, settling on the end of his bed. His hands rested on his knees. “I have... I truly believe that I have.” He shook his head, delighted yellow eyes meeting the blue Dandelion’s. “For so long, I had trapped myself with Victor and his anger. We fed off each other’s agony in a vicious cycle... One that could have claimed me as well. If I had known how much I could have spared myself and those I hurt if I had left sooner—”

“No use for talk like that,” Geralt said, turning away from the giant to look once again at the room. His hand waved away Adam’s words before they could turn into much more of a speech. “Besides, I wouldn’t exactly call this a gift. The life of a Witcher is far from painless and full of its own misery.”

“It is,” Adam agreed. “And I won’t deny, I have many fears about when I truly begin. I know the world is not kind, and I know I do not have the form of a welcome creature. But... it is more of a life than I could’ve ever hoped to have had, hiding in the woods to prey on the fool who made me.” 

The glint of something caught Geralt’s eye, drawing his attention to the small table next to the head of Adam’s bed. Resting there was a pair of spectacles and a chillingly familiar thick, dark journal.

“The fool who made you, eh...”

Geralt scooped both items in his hands. The spectacles were not Adam’s, certainly. With the eyes of a Witcher, there was no need. He cracked open the journal, glancing over a few lines if only to confirm what he already knew: this was the journal of Victor Formot.

“Is that...?” Dandelion’s eyes went wide as his own recognition swept him. “Gods be damned! I’d wondered where it had gone...”

Closing the book, Geralt looked to Adam, his brow furrowed. He lifted the items in one hand. “You kept these?”

The giant nodded, his head bobbing slowly as a solemn expression came to his face. “I felt it was too important to lose. I’ll confess I have not read it, but... I know what it contains.” His eyes met Geralt’s. Gone was the wide-eyed spark of delight. Now they were much as they had been so long ago—low and sorrowful. “You have given me a new life as I am now. But I cannot forget what I was. I took it in secret before we left the north.” He shifted, better to face Geralt. “Before you say, I know there is danger in these pages. I  _ pray _ there aren’t others like Victor who have or will seek to stumble down the same path that he did. I have no doubt that the knowledge of created life, if shared, could lead to chaos.”

“That’s quite the understatement,” Dandelion huffed. His eyes glanced up to Geralt’s. “I can think of a few people who would be absolutely rabid for such a thing—especially  _ one _ mage in particular.”

Geralt visibly winced at the very thought of Yennefer learning such things. If she got her hands on the secret to creating life... Chaos was putting it  _ mildly _ .

“At the very least,” Adam went on, “with me, I know they’re safe.”

“Of course,” Dandelion agreed. “Who better than the very man the pages speak of?” He gave Adam a smile that the giant attempted to return. It didn’t quite reach his eyes, but the effort was there, at least. “I suppose it really doesn’t matter,” the bard went on. “Regardless of who reads it, with those pages missing, whatever Victor’s great secret was for bestowing life is forever unknown!”

Adam’s face shifted, quickly turning from deep and sorrowful to soft confusion. “Pages missing?”

“I believe so, if my memory serves me right. Here, give it to me, Geralt.” He took the book from the Witcher’s hand and began to flip through it, humming to himself as familiar passages came back to him. “Yes... yes, it was after... And... yes!” He held the pages flat with his thumbs, making the torn remnants of paper still in the spine stand up straight. “The section that WOULD be your birth should be here, between his final preparations and his recovery from fever. I assume Victor tore them out at some point in his rage, or some such thing.”

The giant only looked more confused, narrowing his eyes at the torn paper. “That is strange... I know, at least, he had them when he made the woman. I suppose he could’ve torn them after, but... Frankly, I cannot imagine him damaging his own record.” 

“I can,” Geralt scoffed. “The boy was fucking insane by the end.”

Adam nodded, but the confusion reigned in his eyes still. “Still... if nothing else mattered to him, his account of everything... I know at least he guarded it from  _ me _ with furious passion. There was something in it he sought to protect.”

That low, bitter growling feeling in Geralt began to rise. “If  _ he _ didn’t tear out the pages,” he said, taking a step forward. “Who did?”

Adam met his eyes but could only shake his head. “I have no idea. It could’ve happened at any time following the woman’s destruction.”

“Well that  _ really _ doesn’t narrow it down,” Dandelion sighed, closing the book and handing it back to Adam. His face twisted with sheer annoyance. “The man only traveled  _ half the fucking continent _ between then and when  _ we  _ read it!”

The book was such a simple thing, appearing comically small in the giant's hands, as most things did. Adam held it with such reverence, one could’ve mistaken it for some strange and twisted holy book. In some way, for Adam, it was. In its pages held the story of his creation and fall. However, it was only after its ending that Adam had been able to find his redemption

“Perhaps it’s nothing,” the giant said. He reached across the bed and set the dark book back down on the nightstand. Geralt gently placed the spectacles back next to it. “Perhaps Victor was just. A vain madman who wished no one else to know what he did.”

His eyes looked up to Geralt’s, silently asking a question he was afraid to say out loud.

Geralt just nodded, placing a hand on Adam’s shoulder. “Perhaps,” he agreed. “And perhaps we better make our way to the dining hall for dinner before Vesemir comes and yells at us for being late.”

“Yes,” Dandelion declared with a grin, placing a hand on Adam’s arm. “And afterwards, I will play you the ballad I named for you! I am certain you will  _ love _ it.” He leapt from the bed with all the grace and charm a bard like him truly could. He looked at Adam and offered his arm. “Master Witcher. Shall we?”

Adam beamed. And after rising from his own bed, he took the Bard’s arm with a delighted, “we shall.” The two took off toward the stairs.

“Come along, Geralt,” the bard called behind him. “Rude to be the last one to the table!”

“I’m right behind you.”

He followed them to the door. Already they made their way down, laughing and chatting as they departed. But Geralt took a moment for himself. He glanced across the room to where that dark book and pair of shining spectacles sat. For the briefest of moments, there was a tug in his gut—some dark pronouncement of significance.

But the voices of his friends were calling through the halls. He turned back down the stairs and closed the door to the room behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's all she wrote, folks!!
> 
> Thank you so much for reading this. I cannot thank you enough for your love and attention. PLEASE, leave a comment if you enjoyed it, drop a kudos, share it with friends--anything you feel it deserves. I'm really fucking proud of this baby. It's been such a weird brain child that could only come from me being a strange bastard who likes Frankenstein a little TOO much (Fun fact, the title comes from the song Birth to My Creation, from Frankenstein: A New Musical. If you haven't listened to the musical. I cannot recommend it ENOUGH. it's VERY good)
> 
> I'm batting around the idea of a sequel, but I have yet to settle on anything. It's mostly just headcannons and ideas right now. We shall see!
> 
> Mostly I just wanna say thanks. I cannot say how much your kindness means to me and encourages me <3 You guys are the best. 
> 
> Til Next time


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